


Immortal and Imperishable

by prettysailorsoldier



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: ACBB, After Camlann Merlin Big Bang, Big Bang Challenge, Canon Era, First Time, M/M, Magic, Magic Revealed, Merthur - Freeform, Reincarnation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-30
Updated: 2014-08-30
Packaged: 2018-02-15 08:09:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 154,592
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2221785
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/prettysailorsoldier/pseuds/prettysailorsoldier
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>"The soul of man is immortal and imperishable" - Plato</i>
</p>
<p>When Merlin first arrives in Camelot, he is certain of the destiny that awaits him: Clearing the throne of the Pendragon dynasty to make way for the Once and Future King. Working with Nimueh and a rebel band of druids, he is sent to infiltrate Camelot, working from the inside to overthrow those that will challenge the rise of Albion. He didn't count on becoming the manservant of the crown prince--or, worst of all, liking him--and, slowly, Merlin begins to wonder if the king he has been searching for is a lot closer than anyone believed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the After Camlann Big Bang Challenge, which, as a first time Merlin writer, has been a _wild_ ride!
> 
> Infinite thanks go to my artist, [texasfandoodler](http://texasfandoodler.livejournal.com/) for creating the amazing pieces of fanart before you, as well as for being a steadfast friend and cheerleader through the blood, sweat, tears, and coffee that went into this piece.

The camp is quiet, fires dwindling to embers as the night drags toward early morning. Muffled sniffles and snorts issue from the small gathering of tents, shadows flickering across the canvas, but the clearing is otherwise still. From the largest tent, settled on the edge some distance from the others, there is a small shuffle, and then the front flap peels inward.

A woman appears, tall and draped in red, her hair intricately twisting over her shoulders. She glances side-to-side, eyes sharp and lips thin, and then relaxes, stepping further out and holding the flap open behind her. A boy follows after her, pale, piercing eyes darting around the clearing beneath a mop of dark curls. He stands beside the woman, who continues holding the flap for the final occupant. This young man looks older than the other boy, although not by much, and, while he is taller, he is also smaller somehow, all edges and sharp angles. He stumbles slightly in the dirt as he walks at a crouch, but quickly straightens up, turning as he stands across from the imposing woman.

“You have the mirror?” she asks, quick and sharp.

The young man nods, tugging demonstratively at one shoulder of his pack. “I do.”

“Contact us as soon as you are able. We have waited long enough as it is.”

“I will not let you down, mistress,” he assures steadily, bowing his head.

She narrows her eyes down at his tousled, brown hair for a moment, and then her face unstiffens slightly. “See that you do not,” she says, lifting her chin. “Only you can make way for the Once and Future King, Emrys. The Pendragon dynasty _must_ be obliterated.”

“I know,” the man replies with another nod, his eyes focused somewhere on her neck as opposed to her face.

The woman stares at him a moment longer, eyes darting over his figure, and then steps back. “Go,” she snaps, turning to the side and nodding to the woods on the opposite side of camp. “You should arrive at first light.” With that, she is gone, dress swirling around her as she disappears back into the tent.

The thin man seems to deflate, shoulders slumping forward as his neck collapses down.

The younger boy smiles at him, nodding toward the woods again, and they walk forward, carefully picking around the detritus left behind from setting up as they make their way across camp. They do not speak, the curly-haired boy sneaking glances at his companion at increasingly intervals, while the other man remains focused on the ground ahead of his feet.

Some distance beyond the last tent, they stop, the taller boy lifting his head to stare at the star-spotted sky poking through the canopy in patches.

“Do you think it will be worth it? Albion?” he asks, his eyes reflecting distant suns.

“Of course,” the younger man replies, frowning. “The prophecy says-”

“I know what the prophecy says, Mordred,” the man interrupts, dropping his gaze to his friend’s face. “I’m asking you what you _think_.”

Mordred’s frown deepens, his mouth opening in soft confusion, and then he blinks, jaw setting as he nods. “Of course it will be worth it,” he says fiercely. “Our people deserve vengeance.”

“Vengeance is not always justice,” the taller boy answers, looking so much older now, world-worn lines folding across his face.

Mordred’s eyes widen sharply, flashing with surprise and hurt, but it is swiftly swallowed by anger. “Merlin, what- What are you saying?” he snarls, stepping closer to lower his voice into his companion’s face. “That they don’t deserve to die? After everything they’ve done? After what they did to Will and your-”

“Don’t.”

Mordred’s voice chokes off in his throat, his arms quivering slightly in the wind that suddenly rustles through the trees.

“Don’t ever talk about them.”

Mordred drops his head. “I’m sorry,” he murmurs to the dirt. “I only meant...” He fades off with a sigh, staring aimlessly out into the dark for a moment before returning his eyes to his friend. “We’ve all lost someone, Merlin,” he says softly.

“I know,” Merlin answers, his shoulders lowering as he sighs.

Mordred smiles, soft and sad, stepping forward to place a hand on Merlin’s shoulder. “Then it is time we put an end to it.”

Merlin takes a deep breath out at the woods before turning his eyes, meeting the paler ones. He nods with an equally doleful smile, covering Mordred’s hand with his own and clamping it down in solidarity.

Mordred retracts his hand, but only to wrap his arms around Merlin’s neck, hands bumping and tangling with the pack on his back. “Take care of yourself, Emrys,” he whispers into the thin, pale neck.

Merlin chuckles, his hands fists as they clamp onto the boy’s back. “I will,” he answers, and they pull apart enough to rest their hands loosely on one another’s shoulders. “I took care of you, didn’t I? And if I survived _that_ ,” he says, dipping his head as he lifts his eyebrows, “I don’t think the Pendragons have a chance.”

Mordred huffs a faint laugh, dropping his eyes to Merlin’s chest, and then his face twists with sadness once again, his fingertips twitching where they brush against the hint of shoulder Merlin’s strap has tugged bare. “You’ll call when you can?”

“I will,” Merlin assures, moving his hands to rest over Mordred’s forearms, and only then does the younger boy release, letting his arms slide down through Merlin’s grip until they are entwined at the fingers.

Mordred looks down at their loosely twisted digits—Merlin’s longer and more delicate, but no less pale—and heaves in a breath, the exhale sounding with conviction. He lifts his head, his mouth closed and firm. With a nod, he untangles their hands, stepping back. “Good luck, Merlin.”

Merlin smiles, tugging up his pack with a bounce and a jolt. “Goodbye, Mordred,” he replies. He turns, stepping into the trees, a whispered word drifting into the air before a rippling ball of blue light is hovering over the path ahead, guiding him forward to Camelot.

\---

Dawn had just broken over Camelot as Merlin made his way toward the castle, his eyes wide at the unimaginable size of the city. He had heard stories, even seen a map or two, but they did nothing to prepare him for the towering stone walls and bustling streets. Horses clopped from every direction, and he kept turning at the sound, frantic he was about to be run down. People pushed everything from bread to silks at him from stalls along the straw-strewn streets, and he politely shook his head, lifting a hand in decline as he picked his way through the lower town.

He reached a gate, at which were stationed two, red-wrapped guards, and, after asking where he could find the court physician, was pointed toward the castle. The ring of the city that surrounded the castle was clearly wealthier, and there were signs denoting various businesses stretching out from wood and plaster buildings of various colors and stages of chipping. None of this was anything Merlin hadn’t expected from his conversations with Nimueh, who had been to Camelot at some point in her eternally-shrouded past, but he was surprised to find the area mostly deserted. A mere handful of people milled around, fetching water or feeding livestock, and they were all quiet, subdued, as if the entire center of the city was observing a moment of silence.

Merlin watched the ground ahead of him, careful not to trip or step on anything that would cause him to break the pall as he followed the guard’s directions to the castle. So focused was he on his feet, he didn’t notice coming up on the crowd until he was nearly in it, the streets changing to grey stone as he found himself standing at the edge of a courtyard. He lifted his head, looking out over the sea of heads in front of him, and his blood froze still in his veins.

“Please, Your Majesty.” The man was shaking, his hands and ankles shackled as he stood on the raised, wooden platform. His clothes were torn and dirty, his hair flecked with straw, but his face was turned away from the crowd. “I have two young boys, and my wife- My wife, she is pregnant, Your Highness. We could not survive.”

“I did not ask for more of your excuses!” a man shouted down at the prisoner, his red robes fluttering in the faint breeze as his face contorted in fury beneath a sparkling, golden crown. “You have already been convicted of sorcery and sentenced to death. Now, what are your last words!?”

Merlin’s blood abruptly unfreezes and begins rushing to make up the distance, his hands curling into fists as his skin burned with rage. Red prickled around the edges of his vision as he glared fury at the grey-haired man standing unmoved above the throng, flanked by armored men in crimson cloaks. It could be no one else, this mercenary against magic, and hate welled up thick and acrid in Merlin’s throat as he glared up at Uther Pendragon.

Fingernails cut into his palms as Merlin’s hands shook with the onslaught of emotions, and he did not hear the man’s reply as he turned, his focus on nothing but getting away. He chose the closest street, and, trying to work his way in the direction of the side of the castle he was told housed the court physician, ducked into a side alley that headed roughly that way. His fury simmered down to aching helplessness as he walked, straw billowing around him with the speed of his steps, and his fingers were just beginning to creak loose from their clenched fists when he stepped out into another larger street and collided with something heavy and solid.

“What the- Hey!” a male voice exclaimed as Merlin went skittering backward, catching himself on the side of a building to barely keep from falling. “You idiot, watch where you’re going!”

Merlin pushed himself off the wall, ready to put his restrained rage to good use. “ _You_ ran into _me_!” he snapped, stepping forward to glare at his assailant, and his righteous anger faltered momentarily as he took in the man.

He looked to be about Merlin’s age, and nearly exactly the same height, but the similarities stopped there. He was wearing a fine grey tunic, the laces coming unthreaded over his chest, and dark trousers that tucked into heavy leather boots, the buckles shining in the sun. His arms and legs were thick with muscle, the stretched fabric of his clothes hinting at the curves of sinew, and the dull throb in Merlin’s arm from the impact suddenly made a lot more sense. The man’s hair was gleaming blond and cut neatly, his eyes also blue, but lighter than Merlin’s and sparking with irritation as he returned the glare.

“I did not! You _bolted_ out of there and-” The man stopped, mouth freezing as his eyebrows furrowed, his gaze shifting between Merlin and the alley entrance. “What were you doing back there, anyway?” he asked, eyes narrowing, and something leapt in Merlin’s stomach as the man took a half-step forward, his body coiling into something that screamed dangerous. “No one is supposed to be out here during an execution.”

Merlin’s chest twisted at the word, but he couldn’t afford to be snippy when he noticed this man had a sword strapped to his side and was looking at Merlin like he might feel like trying it out. “I didn’t know,” he answered, straightening his spine, refusing to recoil even as his might-be-attacker took another step forward. “I only just got here.”

The man stopped advancing, the tension in his body unwinding somewhat as he raised an eyebrow, considering him, his eyes lingering on the pack peeking up over Merlin’s shoulders. “No,” he said slowly, and his weight shifted back into a less threatening stance. “No, I suppose you don’t look like you’re from around here.”

Merlin tried to regulate his sigh of relief, but it was still a little too loud as it passed through his nose, and a twitch of the man’s mouth suggested he heard it. Merlin glared at him.

“So, what _does_ bring you to Camelot?” the man asked, crossing his arms over his chest, and Merlin noticed the tell-tale callouses on his hands that came with handling a sword, prompting him to refrain from the biting retort about it being none of his business.

“I came to stay with my uncle,” he replied, shifting a strap on his shoulder.

“Stay?” the man repeated, lifting an eyebrow. “As in permanently?”

Merlin straightened his spine. “Yes,” he snapped, considering using that retort after all.

The blond chuckled, and Merlin blinked, his forehead creasing with surprised confusion. “Good. It’s been awhile since we had a village idiot,” he said with a mocking grin.

Merlin scowled. “Yeah, well I would have preferred Town Prat, but apparently that position’s already taken,” he retorted with a challenging smirk.

The man’s blue eyes widened, his mouth dropping open with a surprising level of shock, and then his lips spread into a disbelieving smile, a faint chuckle escaping him as he shook his head. “I suppose it is,” he answered with a shrug, and Merlin couldn’t help but chuckle a little himself. “So do you know where your uncle lives?” he asked, and whatever tension had lingered between them was gone.

Merlin nodded. “I think so. More or less. He lives in the castle. The court physician.”

“Gaius!?” the man blurted out, eyes popping. “Your uncle is Gaius?”

“Er, yes,” Merlin answered hesitantly, curious at the reaction. “Well, not officially. I mean, not by blood, but he was a close friend of my mother’s.”

“Oh,” the man murmured, still looking rather dazed, but he quickly gathered himself. “Well, Gaius’ quarters are that way,” he said, waving a hand back toward the alley Merlin had exited. “Through the courtyard.”

“Yeah, I know, I was just…hoping to find a way around,” Merlin muttered, looking down as he shifted his feet in the straw.

“Not one for public executions?” the man assumed, his mouth twisting into a sympathetic grimace.

Merlin shrugged. “Guess I haven’t been here long enough to catch the bloodlust,” he replied flatly, his stomach immediately clenched in panic at his carelessness.

The man only hummed thoughtfully, dropping his head to the dirt for a moment. “Maybe you won’t. I’ve lived here my whole life, and I still hate it.” There was a bitter note to the man’s voice, a darkening of his eyes as he gazed unfocused in the general direction of the gallows, and that more than anything was what made Merlin comfortable enough to ask.

“Do you know what he did? The man…in the square?” Merlin clarified, not quite able to bring himself to any more specific a description without feeling nauseous.

The man’s face hardened, as if some sort of physical shutter was pulled over his features. “He was caught using magic,” he answered tonelessly.

“Alright,” Merlin muttered, shifting again, “but what did he _do_?”

The blond tilted his head in question, eyebrows furrowing, and his blue eyes were searching over Merlin again, as if he’d only just seen him. “He- He was stealing grain from the stores.”

“Is stealing punished by death here?” Merlin inquired, alarmed.

“No,” the man answered, shaking his head and shifting his weight between his feet as he looked away from Merlin’s eyes. “But sorcery always is. No matter the reason.”

Merlin nodded, fighting to appear unmoved and not like his throat was closing up. “He said he couldn’t survive, him and his family,” he found himself murmuring as he looked back in the direction of the square, his eyes focused unseeing at the wall of the building in front of him.

“Everyone is given rations,” the man replied stiffly.

“But those only ever take into account how many people live in a household, not their specific needs,” Merlin argued as he turned back to the man.

He was staring at him with unnerving focus, his eyebrows twitching together slightly. “What do you mean?”

“Well,” Merlin muttered, scratching at his neck as he shifted his gaze, “he said he had two young boys, and surely growing boys would need more grain that the average man. And his wife was pregnant, so shouldn’t that count for a whole other person altogether?”

The man was looking at him as if he’d grown an extra head, blinking blearily. “I-I suppose…” He paused, exhaling softly as he closed his mouth, his surprise shifting into something like curious wonder. “You know, you’re rather insightful for a peasant,” he quipped, but there was a glimmer of truly being impressed in his sparkling blue eyes.

Merlin felt himself flush, unable to completely quell his smile as he dropped his head, tugging at his pack strap as he scuffed a boot across the ground. “Yeah, well…I know what it’s like trying to get by on not enough,” he muttered with a wry smile, glancing up out of the tops of his eyes.

The man’s face was soft and maybe curious, but not pitying, and Merlin felt a rush of gratitude at that, but before he could say anything to diffuse the awkwardness at his admission, people began milling down the street toward them, the execution obviously concluded.

“Well, I should…” Merlin trailed off, jerking a thumb to gesture at the street behind him as he took a swaying step backward.

“Right,” the man blurted gruffly, clearing his throat as he waved a hand up the road. “Gaius.”

“Gaius,” Merlin repeated, nodding and suddenly unsure of what to do with his hands. He clasped them together in front of him with a small snap. “Maybe I’ll, er…see you around. Sometime,” he added, smiling even as his stomach twisted at how stupid he sounded.

Thankfully, the blond just beamed in return, and Merlin’s stomach twisted in an entirely different way. “Looking forward to it, idiot,” he answered, lifting his eyebrows with a smirk.

Merlin tried to scowl, but he could feel his mouth twisting in betrayal. “I’m not, prat,” he answered, flashing a playful grin over his shoulder before turning away, smiling at the feeling of blue eyes burning into his back.

The smile dwindled as he approached Gaius’ quarters, however, a knot of slimy guilt settling in his stomach. He didn’t want to lie to Gaius, but he couldn’t risk getting the old man involved, not when Uther already knew about his past. He would be the first one blamed if anything went wrong, and Merlin had to protect him with plausible deniability, at the very least. Still, there was little comfort found in this fact as he pushed open the door, the old man greeting him with a warm smile and wide arms.

“Merlin!” he exclaimed, his voice low and gravelly, and Merlin couldn’t help but smile back as his uncle’s thin arms wrapped around his shoulders. “It’s been so long. Look how you’ve grown! You were barely three feet tall last I saw you.”

Merlin chuckled, feeling a blush on his neck as Gaius held him out by his shoulders, scanning up and down his height. “It’s good to see you too, Uncle Gaius.”

“Oh, just Gaius is fine, my boy; we’re both adults. My, that makes me feel old!” He laughed, a throaty sound that echoed over the walls around them, and Merlin swallowed around his shame as he forced a grin back. Gaius sighed, one hand clapping against the skin of Merlin’s upper arm as his eyes grew soft and serious. “It is truly good to have you here, Merlin. When I heard what happened, I-I feared…” he faded away, and Merlin nodded, dropping his eyes to the ground. “Well,” Gaius choked, his eyes glistening as he smiled sadly, “you’re here now. That’s what matters.”

Merlin tried for a smile, but it was pained, and Gaius stepped away, dropping his hands.

“Why don’t you go get settled in—your room’s just through that door there—and then you can help me with some tonics I have to prepare,” he said, and Merlin nodded, the smile a little more genuine now.

“Yeah, that- That sounds good. I’ll be out in a bit,” he replied, striding past the elderly man and climbing the stairs to his room.

It was simple, with nothing but a cupboard and a bedside table to furnish the space apart from the bed, but it was warm and comfortable and his, and that was heaven after months of living in the forest with Druids.

He sank down onto the edge of the bed with a sigh, the straw crinkling under his weight, and let his pack slide off his shoulders to hit the wooden floor with a dull thump. He cradled his head in his palms, his breath hot as it reflected back into his face.

The raid on Ealdor had been swift and sure, a group of glorified bandits sweeping through the town on orders from Cenred. Rumors of a powerful sorcerer living in the village had apparently reached him, and he had been eager to gather another asset. It was no secret he was looking to mount an offensive against Camelot, and the more sorcerers he could add to his collection, the better, but they had underestimated the lengths he would go.

The ash had stuck in Merlin’s throat as he pushed through the burning debris, hardly able to see through the smoke of his childhood home. He’d gotten almost everyone else into the forest, but his mother wouldn’t go, wouldn’t leave him. And then the house caught fire.

Wooden beams blocked his path through the door, and he couldn’t move them, couldn’t stop coughing or panicking long enough to use his magic, and, besides, he couldn’t risk shifting anything when he didn’t know where his mother was. He’d called out to Will, eyes streaming from smoke and terror, and his friend had been rushing to help when one of the mounted riders had swiped him across the back with a sword. He went down and stayed there, blood pooling into the dirt around him, and Merlin wasn’t even aware he was screaming until the rider turned to look at him.

The rest is a blur of fire and blood, and the next thing Merlin clearly remembers is stars winking at him through the branches as his body was bounced and jolted, wagon wheels creaking and hushed voices talking in urgent tones.

He was told he was asleep for two days, apparently giving Mordred a black eye and a split lip during brief forays into consciousness in which he frantically tried to escape the helping hands, but the person he remembers is Nimueh.

She was there when he woke up, imposing and direct, and she answered his questions about Ealdor with a brutal honesty that, at the time, he appreciated. He grew to prefer Mordred’s more subtle approach when they began discussing the prophecies, however, something Merlin had been previously unaware of. Truth be told, he was still less than sure he was this Emrys they kept talking about, destined to protect and guide the Once and Future King, but he had accepted the assignment to infiltrate Camelot all the same.

It’s not as if he had to do much of anything, after all. He was obviously supposed to always be on the lookout for the fabled king, but, in the meantime, his responsibility was to gather information, figure out the comings and goings, get his hands on some maps if he could in order to ease the takeover when the Once and Future King was found and Nimueh and their collective band of Druids and sorcerers overthrew the Pendragon regime. Nimueh had been more than clear what exactly her expectations were of Merlin, what her larger purpose was for having him infiltrate Camelot, but Merlin was avoiding thinking about it at the moment, hoping it wouldn’t come to that.

He sighed again, sliding his hands down his cheeks as he sat back up, reaching down to untie his pack. He could hear Gaius in the room beyond, tinkling bottles and pounding a pestle, but he still made an effort to be quiet as he pulled the shard of enchanted mirror from the confines of the canvas bag. It was wrapped in a scrap of linen, both to prevent cutting himself and spying, and he unwrapped it before holding it up to his face. His eyes reflected gold back at him, and then the surface went black, a soft, rustling sound coming from the glass. There was a scuffle of fingers, and then a broad stretch of white teeth beneath bright, green eyes.

“Merlin!” Mordred hissed, ecstatic even as he was making an effort to be quiet.

Merlin chuckled, unable to help himself. “Hello, Mordred. Miss me already?”

“Pillock,” Mordred muttered with a half-hearted narrowing of his eyes. “But yeah, a little,” he added with a sheepish shrug, and Merlin knew he would be blushing even though it was too dark to see.

Merlin smiled somewhat awkwardly, dropping his eyes for a moment. “Well, I’m sure I’ll see you soon enough. Is Nimueh around? I don’t have a lot of time.”

Mordred’s face fell in brief disappointment, but then he smiled again, although dimmer than before. “Yeah, sure, hang on. She was just- Milady!”

Merlin rolled his eyes on impulse, and then quickly controlled his features as he heard a familiar, snapping voice approaching.

“Emrys? Have you anything to report?”

“Not much as of yet, mistress,” he said mechanically, inclining his head even as his fingers tightened on the edges of the mirror. The insistence on formality was one of the main reasons Nimueh had rubbed Merlin the wrong way almost immediately, but he could not deny the commonality of their cause. “It may take some time. I’ll be helping Gaius, but I’m not sure how much access that will afford me to the castle itself.”

“You must find a way in, Emrys, find a way to gain their trust. Seduce a maid or a squire or something.”

Merlin’s mouth dropped open, an embarrassingly strangled sound garbling out of his throat.

“Call me when you have something useful,” Nimueh continued before he could reply, and the poisonous edge to her voice brought him sharply back to reality.

“Of course, mistress. I will find a way,” he said, the words breathy as his head still reeled, and then she was gone, leaving him staring down at his own gobsmacked expression. He stared into his own eyes for a long moment, considering his reflection.

 _‘You were always special, Merlin,’_ he could hear his mother saying, her voice drifting back to him from all those years ago, when he had hidden in the hay loft after being mocked for the first time about his magic. _‘You have a great destiny ahead of you, I can feel it.’_

Somehow, he didn’t think tempting a castle maid to bed for information was what she’d had in mind.

Thoroughly disgusted by everything, he wrapped the mirror back up and tossed it haphazardly back into his pack, leaving settling in for later as he left to help Gaius.

Hours went by, pounding herbs into pastes and powders, mixing potions and draughts for everyone from the pub owner to the king, and it occured to Merlin more than once how easy it would be for him to poison someone from his position, but only in that morbidly curious sort of way that causes one to look over a battlement and consider if they could survive the fall. Still, he was starting to scare himself a little, so it was a great relief when, just before the supper hour, Gaius sent him with a basket of the wares they had made, tagged with names and vague instructions on where they live.

It was an easy task, and no one bothered him much, smiling and nodding as if he had lived there all along. The anonymity was comfortable, empowering somehow, and he didn’t even mind when Ms. Collins (a widow whose daughter was in need of a cough remedy) forced him to sit down for a cup of tea before he went, regaling him with the ins and outs of Camelot, which, to her, seemed to be primarily castle gossip.

“From what I’ve heard,” she said, tapping her chest as if she was a great authority on the subject, “he was _quite_ comfortable with Lady Helen at supper last night. They ate just the two of them. Heard it from one of the kitchen maids meself, though I shan’t tell you which one.” She chuckled, her eyes begging him to inquire, but he only smiled and nodded into his tea, not caring enough about her informant to go through the dance of being staunchly refused a few times before she inevitably cracked.

He left, thanking her and bidding goodbye, and then returned up to the castle, having saved that batch of potions for last. The king’s potion was being delivered by Gaius himself, apparently no one else being trusted with the transportation, so Merlin set about hunting down the various servants, maids, and knights whose medicine he carried. He garnered far too much attention in the kitchens than he would have liked, the cook nearly chasing him out under threat of a wooden spoon before he managed to blurt out he who he was looking for, but the rest of the deliveries went smoothly.

One knight, a man named Sir Leon, had requested a salve, apparently for a cut he had obtained during training, as he told Merlin when he beckoned him to step inside his chambers and place the jar on the table, his own hands busy removing his armor.

“I suppose that’s what I get for underestimating Arthur,” Leon chuckled, grey-blue eyes sparkling with fond humor as his brown curls bounced with a shake of his head, looking faintly red where they caught the sun. “Should have known it wouldn’t matter which hand he was using, ‘specially after that tournament back in the spring.”

Merlin smiled, not entirely in on the joke. “Well, I hope Gaius’ salve helps, sir,” he said, not entirely sure how to take his leave.

“Oh, I’m sure it will. Always has,” Leon replied, flashing him a bright smile, and then gave him a nod, clearly permission, and Merlin ducked his head in return before backing out the door.

He took several steps down the corridor, scanning to ensure he was alone, and then leaned against the wall, breathing deeply.

Leon had been nothing but nice, but simply being in that close of proximity to a knight of Camelot, someone who wouldn’t think twice about skewering his heart if they found out his true identity, well, it was nerve-wracking, to say the least.

His heart rate returning somewhat to normal, he looked down into the basket, reading the tag on one of the two, remaining bottles.

 _Lady_ _Morgana_

He had to ask directions from one of the maids carrying linens, but he found the right door eventually, knocking firmly before backing away as feet clicked across the stone.

A woman answered the door, brown eyes widening within her dark complexion. “Oh,” she murmured, tucking a loose strand of tightly curled brown hair back behind her ear. “I-I’m sorry, is it time for the feast?”

“Sorry?” Merlin muttered, tilting his head, and then shook it. “Oh, no. Well, maybe, but that’s not why I’m here.” He reached into the basket, pulling out the blue-tinted vial. “Gaius sent me to deliver this to the lady Morgana,” he explained, holding the potion out toward her.

“Oh, right, of course,” she chuckled, taking it from him and fiddling with her hair again as she looked down, opening the door wider. “I-I just didn’t recognize you. Have you been working for Gaius long?”

“No,” Merlin answered with a smile, something about her immediately putting him at ease. “I only just arrived in Camelot this morning. Gaius is my uncle; I’ve come to stay with him.”

“Your uncle?” the woman repeated, surprised. “He never mentioned- Though, I suppose, I never asked… I’m Gwen,” she rambled, switching the vial in her hands as she extended her right. “Well, Guinevere, but it’s Gwen. People call me Gwen.”

Merlin chuckled, unable to stop himself as the arches of Gwen’s cheeks turned pink. “Merlin,” he replied, giving her hand a brief shake. “It’s good to meet you, Gwen. Are you a maid here in the castle?”

“No, well, sort of,” Gwen muttered, scratching behind her ear as she shrugged. “I’m the lady Morgana’s maidservant. Oh, and I should get her dressed for the feast! It hasn’t started, has it? Although, I suppose you wouldn’t know. Not that you _couldn’t_ know, because, of course, you could, but that’s not exactly your job, is it? Not that your job isn’t important, probably more important than knowing about feasts, but I just-”

Merlin couldn’t help it, he laughed, dropping his head and lifting the backs of his fingers to his lips to cover his teeth. “It’s fine, I-I know what you mean,” he assured, and Gwen’s blush deepened as she bit her bottom lip around a smile, dropping her eyes. “And I don’t think the feast has started. I passed at least three flower arrangements on my way up, so they’re probably still preparing the hall.”

Gwen smiled gratefully, and the very air seemed to brighten around her. “Oh, good. Thank you. I should go help her, then, but it was lovely to meet you, Merlin. I trust I’ll be seeing you again, if you’re staying in Camelot,” she added, her face falling a little with uncertain disappointment.

He beamed back, a disappointed Gwen too much to bear. He’d only just met her, but he suspected fluffy forest creatures gathered around her when she was sad, chirping birds carrying handkerchiefs to her hands, and he certainly didn’t want to be the cause of _that_! “I am. I’m sure I’ll see you around,” he replied, giving her a small wave as he turned back down the corridor, which she returned with a flick of her hand before closing the door. He chuckled to himself, shaking his head. Maybe Camelot wouldn’t be so bad after all, if more people were like Gwen. His smile evaporated as he picked up the last bottle, a tonic for stiff muscles, and his eyes alighted on the tag.

Oh, god…

Hand shaking around the vial, he tried to force his shoulders down, not wanting to look too much like a sorcerer in hiding. His connection to Gaius was legitimate, and the reason he had been chosen for the assignment, but, nevertheless, he did have a real reason to be there. He wasn’t suspicious, he wasn’t. But every single time he heard footsteps, he expected shouts of ‘Sorcery! Stop him!’ to echo over the stone walls. In spite of his internal monologue of panic, he reached the door unaccosted, but still had to take several, deep breaths before being able to knock.

“Enter,” a low, muffled voice bade, and Merlin closed his eyes, exhaling once more and forcing himself to appear calm.

Of course, that immediately went to hell.

He entered the room, closing the door behind him, and then, upon looking up, nearly dropped the bottle in shock.

There, across the room, sitting at an ornate writing desk, was a young man, his blond hair backlit in a halo of the setting sun. He was wearing a fine red tunic, which looked impossibly soft beneath a brown, leather jacket embellished with silver fastenings and studs. One of his legs was sticking out at an angle from beneath the desk, revealing brown trousers and tall, leather boots.

Merlin wanted to turn around, to flee, to throw himself out the window even, but then those pale blue eyes lifted, and he was well and truly frozen, his traitorous heart skittering.

The young man shot up from his desk, spine straightening against the back of the chair as his quill fell limply from his hands with a soft click. His mouth parted in momentary alarm, eyes widening a margin, and then his lips closed, and he blinked at Merlin, obviously not nearly as shocked by the coincidence Merlin was beginning to suspect was orchestrated.

“You,” Merlin breathed, aware he was gaping like a fish, but unable to command his jaw. “You’re…”

“Yes,” the man, the man from town, the man Merlin was fairly sure had been _flirting_ with him, Prince Arthur of bloody Camelot replied.

Merlin stared at him, finally remembering to breathe, and that seemed to clear his head a little. “Right,” he murmured, looking aimlessly at the four-poster bed. He swallowed, mind still reeling. “Do- Do I…kneel or-or something?” He looked back to _Prince Arthur_ , his hand waving limply between his chest and the floor.

Arthur looked very much like he wanted to laugh, but instead he dropped his head, sucking his lips in around his smile. “If you want,” he shrugged.

“No one _wants_ to kneel,” Merlin replied before he could think better of it, correcting automatically, forgetting the person he was talking to was no longer just random-guy-with-muscles-and-pretty-eyes.

Arthur blinked, tilting his head and searching Merlin’s face with a thoughtful expression, and Merlin hoped it wasn’t considering what way to best sever his neck. “No, I suppose they don’t,” Arthur said simply, frowning as he looked off to the side, as if the notion that not everyone wanted to throw themselves at his feet had never occurred to him.

It was that more than anything that brought Merlin’s mental capacity roaring back. Title or not, Prince Arthur was still a prat.

“I brought your tonic,” he said sharply, sitting it harder than necessary on the table beside him as opposed to walking it to the desk. “Gaius says take two spoonfuls with meals until the pain subsides.” He neglected the formalities because he’d forgotten this person was someone else now, but he didn’t feel like correcting himself either, so he simply turned and made his way toward the door.

“No, Merlin, wait,” came a rushed voice behind him, and Merlin turned, eyebrows furrowed over wide, accusing eyes.

“How do you know my name?” he asked, and he was definitely snapping now, but, the hell with it, he’d been lied to. “I never told you. And you never told me yours, either, thus this _marvelously_ awkward moment,” he muttered angrily, waving his arm in an expansive gesture.

Arthur had the decency to at least look mildly chagrined, his face downturned as he walked out from behind the desk. “News travels fast here, and you could’ve asked for my name.” He was challenging now, crossing his arms and leaning back against the desk, his ankles crossed in front of him.

Merlin glared, his fingers gripping the back of one of the chairs beside him to direct his frustration. “I don’t often feel the need to throw ‘Hey, you wouldn’t happen to be royalty, would you?’ into conversations with people I meet on the street. And, besides,” Merlin snipped, folding his arms across his chest and meeting Arthur’s gaze defiantly, “you would’ve lied.”

Arthur’s mouth dropped open in offense, but the corners of his lips were twitching. “I am the future king of Camelot, _Mer_ lin,” Arthur said, and Merlin’s stomach had _no right_ to flip at the inflection on his name. “I am the picture of honesty.”

Merlin snorted, rolling his eyes and backing away before his flush became obvious, but it really was too hot in here. “Right, of course. My mistake, _Sire_. Forgive me, _Your Highness._ Please don’t lob off my head for my insolence, _my lord_.” Merlin stretched the titles out as pompous as he could manage, rolling his hand dramatically in a half-bow with each one as he retreated backward toward the door.

“Merlin, _wait_!” Arthur urged, rolling his head to the ceiling as his shoulders slumped, as if _Merlin_ were the one being difficult, of all the ridiculous notions. “As thrilling as it is to see you showing proper respect, that isn’t why I sent for you.”

Merlin’s lips formed a confused pout, his head tilting. “ _Sent_ for me?” he parroted, a smug smirk beginning to form on his lips as Arthur’s jaw stiffened, even though he didn’t yet understand the man’s embarrassment. “You didn’t _send_ for me. I’m delivering medicine for Gaius. There’s no way you could’ve-” Merlin stopped, eyes widening as an, albeit unlikely, possibility occurred to him.

Arthur was carefully avoiding Merlin’s eyes, watching the progress of his boot as he slid it back and forth across the stone floor.

“You don’t need that, do you?” Merlin questioned, his voice a little breathless with awe and triumph as he nodded toward the vial between them on the table. “You made up a muscle ache so I’d have to come up here and deliver your tonic.”

“No, I had training, and I-I pulled…” Arthur argued weakly, a hand hovering over his arm and shoulder, as if not quite sure where to clearly _fake_ an injury.

Merlin let out a laugh to the ceiling, wondering if he’d accidentally conjured butterflies in his chest. “No _wonder_ we had to make that one last minute! Well, go on, then,” Merlin said, beckoning with a hand before folding his arms. “Why did you resort to subterfuge to get me up here?” he asked, flicking his eyebrows with a smug smile, and he might be flirting _juuuuust_ a little, but only because Arthur blushing could be the very best thing he’d ever seen.

Arthur clenched his jaw, glaring ferociously, but the tips of his ears were still pink, and Merlin only smiled broader. Finally, Arthur seemed to give up, pushing off the desk with a huff and rounding back to the opposite side. “Apart from my desperate need for Gaius’ aid”—Merlin snorted, and Arthur flicked his eyes up to glare anew—“I wanted to show you this.” He spun something around on the surface of the desk, pushing it forward so it slid toward the edge.

Merlin gave him a questioning glance, but Arthur only waved a hand down at the document in answer, so Merlin stepped closer until he could lean forward and make out the words. Of course, he then had to lean even closer, until finally he was picking the damn thing up and holding it mere inches from his nose. “Your handwriting is _terrible_!” he chided, shaking his head in sheer disbelief at the expanse of awful in front of him.

“Hey!” Arthur blurted, snatching the parchment from his hands. “I had the finest tutors in all Albion!”

“You know it doesn’t count if they say that about _themselves_ , right?” Merlin asked, and he actually thought Arthur was going to stick his tongue out for a moment. “Well, I can’t read that, so why don’t you just tell me what it says?”

Arthur narrowed his eyes again over the parchment before beginning to roll it up in front of him. “I thought about what you said, about the rations. It was- Well, it wasn’t a _terrible_ idea,” he mumbled, looking down at the scroll he shifted between his hands.

Merlin’s cheeks twitched with a restrained grin. “Insightful for a peasant, I believe you said, Sire,” he responded, and Arthur shot him a quick sneer before rounding the desk to lean against the front, tapping the butt of the scroll into his palm.

“Yes, well, I drafted a proposal. For my father,” he said, lifting his eyes meaningfully to Merlin on the last word.

Merlin certainly understood, his eyes straining against their sockets as they widened.

Arthur dropped his gaze, opening the scroll again, although he didn’t seem to actually be reading it when he spoke. “An extra half-ration will be awarded to every boy and girl between the ages of 11 and 16, as well as to women who are with child.” He cleared his throat, tightening the scroll into a cylinder once more, and then looked up expectantly, but Merlin was still too dumbstruck to reply. “It’s not quite a whole extra person, but it, er…seemed fair,” Arthur mumbled, lifting one hand from the parchment to scratch behind his ear.

Merlin blinked, and then his brain caught up, and he closed his gaping mouth. “It-It is. Fair, I mean.” He coughed pointedly, eyebrows furrowing in self-deprecation at his fumbling. “Why did you do it?” he asked before he really meant to.

Arthur frowned at him for a moment before turning a pensive expression to the stone floor. “I suppose it was the-the execution,” he began, and Merlin’s heart ached in sympathy at the hesitation on the word. “If his family had been adequately provided for, perhaps he wouldn’t have felt the need to steal. Of course, he was still a sorcerer,” he added, forehead creasing as though staring down an impossible puzzle, “but maybe…” His eyes shifted around the floor for a moment before he blinked, a quick sigh huffing through his nose as he shook his head lightly. “It doesn’t matter,” he muttered, and Merlin couldn’t think of a reasonable reason to argue why it very much _did_. “I thought it may help prevent some of the theft in Camelot, that’s why I did it.” His eyes flashed, staring Merlin down as if expecting him to argue, to challenge, to question, and he looked plenty prepared to defend his conclusion.

Merlin, however, had no intention of dissenting. “I’m sure it will,” he affirmed, adding a nod for good measure, and was surprised when Arthur’s eyebrows shot up, clearly flummoxed by the approval, as if Merlin’s opinion actually mattered beyond stroking his ego. The expression was gone a blink later, however, and Arthur was official once more.

“I’m going to present it to my father at the feast tonight. Speaking of which”—he glanced back at the clepsydrae on his desk—“we should get going!” He grinned, so innocent it could only mean trouble, and pushed off the desk, flinging open his wardrobe and pulling out a flowing red cloak.

“Sorry, _we_?” Merlin asked, stepping closer as he pointed between them. “I’m not going to the feast.”

“Yes, you are,” Arthur answered, still smiling in that terrifyingly impish way as he approached. “My manservant ran off with one of the kitchen maids a few days ago, and I’ve yet to find a replacement. Put this on me.” He thrust the cloak into Merlin’s chest, and Merlin’s arms lifted to fumble at it instinctively.

He stared down at the soft red fabric, plucking at it with his fingers for a moment of confusion before anger overtook him. “I’m not _dressing_ you!” he spluttered, holding his arms back out to Arthur, cloak draped between his limbs.

Arthur only shook his head, still looking irritatingly sure of himself. “It’s only a cloak, Merlin, you’re hardly dressing me, and I can never get it to fasten properly. You have those scrawny fingers; you’ll be fine.”

Merlin’s mouth dropped open with an indignant squawk. “Scrawny? _Scrawny_!? My fingers aren’t scrawny! Maybe yours are just fat!” he snapped, raising his eyebrows in challenge as he glanced down at the offending phalanges, which didn’t actually look fat at all, but tan and strong and worn in places that would probably rub rough and catch on smoother skin.

Arthur chuckled, unaware of Merlin’s inner turmoil over his damn fingers.

Prat, he was an absolute prat. A prat who cared about children and pregnant women, but still a prat. God, Merlin was a horrible person.

“Will you just do it? We’re going to be late,” Arthur chided, soft and patronizing, and that bristled Merlin out of his musings.

“No, _you’re_ going to be late, because _I’m_ not going. What would you need a personal servant for at a feast, anyway?”

“I always have a personal servant, as do my father and Morgana,” Arthur explained, waving a hand as if this were boring and obvious as opposed to completely absurd. “They taste the food, refill the wine and water. All the usual duties.”

Taste the food?” Merlin repeated, his frown turning into a scowl as Arthur only smiled.

“To see if it’s poisoned,” he replied with a nod.

Merlin barked a laugh. “I am _not_ checking your poisonous food.”

“You don’t _know_ it’s poisoned,” Arthur crooned.

Merlin snorted. “No, and I never will, will I? I’ll just die.”

“With the satisfaction of a job well done.”

“I can’t be satisfied if I’m dead.”

“Your valiant sacrifice will have been in service of the crown.”

“Oh, I _so_ hope that’s what goes on my grave marker!” Merlin whined, high-pitched and earnest, clasping his hands together in pleading. "Here lies Merlin, who died in service of a royal ass."

Arthur laughed, his humor filling the room, and Merlin felt his anger begrudgingly sliding away at the cleansing sound. “You have my word. I’ll go to the stone mason myself,” he chuckled, smiling as he laid a hand over his heart.

Merlin managed to glare at him a few moments longer, and then his lips cracked into a smile as he shook his head in resignation. “Here,” he muttered, lifting the cloak off his arms and beckoning Arthur forward with a wave of the fabric.

Arthur positively beamed as he closed the distance between them, and Merlin thought about strangling him with his own, damn cloak, but then Arthur was _right there_ and his eyes were sparkling and a faint hint of stubble was showing through on his chin and he smelled like summer air and grass and _good god, Merlin, focus_!

He swung the cloak around Arthur’s shoulders, biting his lip in concentration as he attempted to force his fingers to stop quivering around the golden clasps. Arthur’s breath rushed warm over his face, and Merlin’s eyelids fluttered before he quickly hooked the cloak closed over Arthur’s chest, practically leaping away from him when it was done.

“There,” he said, his voice a little higher than normal, and he covered his mouth with a fist and coughed to reset it. “Now you look like a proper royal prat,” he added, hoping the strain in his smirk went unnoticed.

Arthur’s cheek’s twitched with a suppressed laugh, his smile tight and pulling at the edges. “I suggest you be a bit more mindful of your impudence at the feast, Merlin,” he replied, but the credence of the scolding remark was undermined by his tone.

“I will do my utmost to be polite while I choke and die on your poisoned pheasant, Sire,” Merlin countered with a bow of his head, and Arthur did laugh at that, albeit briefly.

“Don’t be ridiculous, Merlin. We’re having venison,” he answered with a teasing smile over his shoulder as he strode to the door.

Merlin snorted, but did not have time to reply as the door opened and the bubble he had allowed himself to grow comfortable in abruptly popped with the rude reminder that Arthur was _Prince_ Arthur. He dropped his head, clasping his hands in front of him, suddenly shy.

“You know, you’re not _actually_ walking to your death, Merlin,” Arthur murmured over his shoulder as they slowed down a staircase. “You don’t have to look quite so morose.” He turned his head to smile at his taunt as they reached the bottom of the stone steps.

Merlin glared at him, his hands disentangling to form fists at his sides, but he also somehow felt more at ease, and, when Arthur chuckled at his anger, he actually managed to playfully sneer back.

They were silent as they finished their walk to the hall, but, as the wooden doors swung inward to admit them, Merlin couldn’t help but gasp.

It was an impossibly large room, the red-draped walls lit with the flickering light of mounted torches and what must have been hundreds of candles in ornate, metal stands. There were easily a dozen tables, slowly filling up as nobles and knights meandered around the room, laughing and shaking hands while goblets swayed in their hands. The tables were not yet laid with food, but the plates were waiting, glinting silver and screaming luxury, and a horde of servants were already buzzing around, chasing their charges with pitchers as they tried to keep the water and wine flowing.

“Is this all it takes to shut you up?” a voice mocked, pulling him out of his wonder with a jolt. “Because, I must say, _that_ would’ve been nice to know earlier.”

Merlin laughed tonelessly, and smug blue eyes crinkled with amusement before Arthur turned back toward the head table. Merlin hovered uncertainly behind him, pulling a chair out automatically when Arthur paused beside it.

Arthur stared down at the offered seat for a moment before lifting his head to Merlin, a question in the tilt of his head.

“What?” Merlin muttered, shifting on the balls of his feet, his palms sliding against the back of the chair.

“Nothing,” Arthur replied, rattling his head as he swept his cloak out behind him to move in front of the chair. “Just surprised you know what you’re doing.”

In response, Merlin pushed the chair in quick and fast, clipping the back of Arthur’s knees.

The man let out a small yip of surprise, collapsing into the waiting seat, his hands coming up to grip the edge of the table, and then he whipped his head around with a furious stare.

Merlin cocked his head, lifting his eyebrows with a half smirk, and would have been perfectly content to continue the unblinking challenge if a small voice to his left had not broken his concentration.

“Merlin?”

He turned to find Gwen staring perplexedly at him behind a tall elegant woman Merlin supposed was Lady Morgana.

The assumed lady turned back to Gwen, confused, and then followed her gaze to rest on Merlin, pale green eyes narrowing in calculation. Even apart from her unsettling stare, she was an imposing presence, a gold-embellished, crimson dress draped elegantly over her form, and even Merlin could recognize she was stunning, even if his own personal leanings were decidedly less feminine.

“Gwen?” she questioned, inclining her head to the girl even as her eyes never left Merlin. “I don’t believe I’ve met your friend.”

Gwen blinked excessively, her mouth opening and closing as she looked between them. “Oh, of course. My apologies, my lady,” she panted with a small bow. “This is Merlin. He’s Gaius’ nephew; he’s come to stay with him.”

Morgana’s eyes widened, and she looked Merlin up and down with renewed interest, but less threat. “Nephew?” she repeated, perfect, pale brow furrowing. “I didn’t know Gaius had a nephew.”

“He doesn’t, my lady,” Merlin replied with a small bow, tired of being talked about. “Not by blood, at least. Gaius is a very old friend of my mother’s.”

Some of the tension in Morgana’s face relaxed at that, and her appraisal seemed to have a favorable outcome, because she stepped forward, extending a hand. “Well, then, I suppose we should be properly introduced. I’m Lady Morgana, Uther’s ward.”

Perhaps Merlin was imagining it, but he thought he heard a note of bitterness in Morgana’s tone when she went over the king’s name. Of course, there were more pressing concerns at the moment, because Lady Morgana was holding out her hand to him and he had no idea what to do with it. Frantic, he looked to Gwen, who swiftly mimed a curtsey, lifting her hand as if to take an imaginary, offered one. Merlin gingerly took Lady Morgana’s hand, more supporting it than anything else, and began to bend into a low bow when something shot through his arm, a sort of warm shiver that swept under his skin. He gasped softly at the sensation, but concluded the bow, trying to act normally as he righted himself, but his charade was shattered when he found Morgana staring down at their combined hands, her eyes wide.

She lifted her eyes to him, making no move to remove her hand, her expression confused and curious, but there was also a softness in her gaze. “Do I- Have we met?” she asked, sounding slightly dazed as she tilted her head at him.

Merlin couldn’t explain it either, this sense of familiarity, of kin, but he said nothing, so bitterly accustomed to lying that the smile and chuckle were out before he’d even had to think. “I do not believe so, my lady,” he replied, extricating his hand from hers, and she jolted in surprise, as if she had forgotten it had been there. “A beauty such as yours would not easily be forgotten,” he added with another incline of his head.

Morgana blinked and then smiled, the open warmth of it nearly knocking the breath out of Merlin, but the spell was broken by a loud snort behind him.

“Of course,” Arthur muttered, rolling his eyes as he swigged back a gulp of water. “You address _Morgana_ properly.”

Merlin smiled indulgently down at him, Arthur’s expression turning wary. “My apologies, Sire. I assure you, your beauty is not easily forgotten either.”

Arthur spluttered into his water, red-faced and coughing while Morgana let out an airy, tinkling laugh.

“Oh, I _like_ you!” she chuckled, grazing a hand down Merlin’s arm, but the warm sensation did not reappear at the touch. “You must bring him to more of these things, Arthur.”

“I’ll take it under advisement,” Arthur grumbled, scowling down into the twisting water as he idly swirled his goblet.

Morgana grinned mischievously at the back of his head before flashing Merlin a wink and turning away, slipping into her chair as Gwen pulled it out.

Gwen then beckoned him with a jerk of her head as she withdrew, and he followed closely in the wake of her skirts. “What are you doing here?” she hissed when they reached the edge of the room, standing against the wall to the right of the head table.

“I don’t really know, to be honest,” Merlin shrugged. “I was just dropping off a tonic, next thing I know, I’ve been conscripted as a temporary manservant.”

Gwen looked at him like he was speaking a foreign language, and then seemed to decide she didn’t want to ask, shaking her head with a brusque huff. “Here,” she said, thrusting a metal pitcher of water into his hands. “Wine is on the table”—she gestured behind her to the long, serving table pressed against the wall, covered in full pitchers, spare plates, and rags for mopping up—“but push the water as much as you can. His Highness is your main priority, of course, but fill goblets whenever you see them empty. Don’t give more wine until they beckon, though, and watch Lord Eldridge; he can get a bit _spirited_ after more than a few goblets.”

“Spirited?” he questioned, scanning the room as if he would suddenly recognize the man he’d never heard of.

Gwen hummed, nodding, and pointed surreptitiously toward a group to their right. “Balding, blue robe, _huge_ nose. Just try not to turn your back to him.”

“Why would-” He faded off as Gwen dropped her head, giving him a disparaging look.

Merlin’s eyes widened, his neck heating as he turned back to stare at the man. “Oh,” he murmured, swallowing with dread, and Gwen giggled, nudging his arm with her shoulder.

“Come on,” she said, smiling in what he was realizing was her usual, calming way. “The speeches will be starting soon.”

The prospect of attending a feast was exciting, even as only a servant, and Merlin drank it all in, watching with rapt attention as the king entered, everyone surging to their feet.

Uther was wearing blue now, though he looked no less grand than he had in the square earlier, but Merlin was hardly watching him now, focused instead on Arthur, who had noticeably stiffened at his father’s entrance. As Uther sat down, beckoning the room to do the same, Arthur’s muscles seemed to resent bending, and he lowered awkwardly, his chair scraping against the floor as he shifted a few inches closer.

Arthur bent his head toward Uther, clearly beckoning, and Uther inclined toward him as Arthur’s mouth worked. After a moment, Arthur pulled out the scroll Merlin immediately recognized as his proposal, passing it to his father, who was looking curiously down at the parchment.

He lifted his head to Arthur, likely voicing the question that had rumpled his expression, and, whatever Arthur’s reply, the king seemed to soften, looking more contemplative than confused. He gave Arthur a quick, curt nod, and then turned, beckoning a servant, who immediately dove forward to collect the scroll. One last comment was imparted to Arthur, and, whatever it was, Arthur seemed to be encouraged, smiling faintly as he nodded and replied.

As Arthur turned away from his father, his eyes found Merlin, who suddenly realized he’d been staring. Arthur didn’t seem to fault the intrusion, however, instead quirking half his mouth up into a smile and giving Merlin a ghost of a nod, and Merlin couldn’t help but smile back, feeling as though he was somehow included in the accomplishment. Although, in truth, it _had_ been his idea to start with.

Whatever awe the feast had initially inspired quickly faded, however, as boring old man after boring old man felt the need to stand up and say something boring while the food was served and eaten. Merlin was almost grateful for the task of filling water goblets, the constant need for refills at least giving him something to occupy his mind. He buzzed around the room in something of a daze, but came back to himself as he resettled against the wall, fetching a fresh, full pitcher from the table and waiting for its need.

“It is my stout belief,” one, elderly man was saying, and Merlin faintly remembered the faceless person who told him to sit down several minutes ago referring to him as Geoffrey, “that a sword is not the only weapon one must have in their arsenal to be a wise ruler.” He eyed the room meaningfully, as if condemning them all personally, although most of them had nothing to rule. “For wisdom cannot be achieved on the battlefield. It is a work of the mind, cultivated through strict study of those who came before us, for the past is a teacher to us all.” He smiled, nodding sagely, and then turned to Uther. “In illustration, if I say to our noble king: It takes a wise man to discover a wise man…” He trailed off, lifting his eyebrows meaningful.

Uther smiled, his gaze never wavering. “Diogenes,” he replied, and Geoffrey grinned, beginning the applause that quickly rippled through the room, Uther nodding graciously at the praise.

“And, of course, our brave prince,” Geoffrey continued, and Arthur’s head shot up from where it had been drooping, “who has been under such _excellent_ tutelage,” Geoffrey added, leaving no doubt he was referring to himself, “also must understand the importance of such teachers.”

Arthur drained his water, looking anywhere but Geoffrey, a wild panic in his eyes, and something seized around Merlin’s heart in sympathy.

Geoffrey didn’t seem to notice the discomfort, barreling on ahead with gusto. “And if I were to speak to him of the virtues of the high-minded man-“

Merlin blinked, recognition buzzing across his brain. He glanced back at Arthur, who had gone slightly pale, and his decision was made.

“-and tell him that such a man-“

He gripped the water pitcher tightly in his hands, hurrying forward and hoping not to spill.

“-must care more for the truth-“

He reached the table, bending lower than necessary as he tipped the pitcher toward the goblet.

“-than for what people think-“

“Aristotle,” he hissed into Arthur’s ear, and Arthur started slightly, half-turning his head to peer skeptically up at Merlin, but there was desperation in his eyes. Time nearly up, Merlin did the only thing he could keep silent and hidden, and gave Arthur a lightning smile and a wink, relaying his certainty before backing away and arranging his face into dutiful nonchalance once more.

“-he would answer with…” Geoffrey’s pause hung in the air, one eyebrow lifting as he and everyone else regarded Arthur expectantly.

Arthur’s head twitched in Merlin’s direction, as if to seek final confirmation, but then he stalled, turning toward Geoffrey, the tension in his shoulders visibly bleeding away as he calmly regarded the man. “Aristotle,” he replied with all the confidence in the world, as if he had just been reading the book that morning and found the question insultingly easy.

Merlin wasn’t quite sure if he was offended or proud. As Arthur glanced over at him, though, giving him a quick, grateful nod, it became a whole lot clearer.

“Merlin?”

He jumped, twisting his head automatically to Gwen, and, when he glanced back, Arthur was talking with his father and Geoffrey, quite clearly forcing a laugh.

“Can you run to the kitchens and get more rags?” Gwen asked he turned back to her, her hair frazzled and coming loose from its tie at the base of her skull.

“Sure,” he replied, and she smiled gratefully, relieving him of his water pitcher and moving aside to let him pass.

It was only once he was out in the corridor that he remembered he had no idea how to get to the kitchens from here, and it took bothering a couple of servants before he found the stone-walled room, thick with steam and mouth-watering scents. The cook remembered him, keeping a sharp eye on him as he collected more rags, and he was given a firm, if unearned, scolding about stealing food as he left, her voice following him up the stairs. He only had to ask for directions once on the way back, and was feeling rather proud of his accomplishment as he made his way down the stone staircase of a servant’s entrance to the hall. A faint singing drifted to his ears, and he stopped on a step, listening to the haunting melody. Something prickled at his skin, a tingling itch like what he had experienced with Morgana, but with none of the warmth, and his magic rose to the surface in response, ready to defend as he continued cautiously down the steps. As the room came into view, he froze, the rags dropping to his feet as his fingers went slack

A woman was standing in the middle of the hall, arms outstretched, her mouth open in song, clearly the Lady Helen he had been hearing so much about. She did not, however, seem to be there for entertainment’s sake, considering the entire room was cold and dark, torches and candles all extinguished, and a thick layer of cobwebs was spread over everything and everyone. And not a soul was moving.

Merlin’s eyes immediately went to the head table, finding Arthur slumped in his chair, cobwebs obscuring his face. He was still, but the web was shifting slightly in front of his mouth, and Merlin’s chest unclenched a little at that.

Just then, however, Lady Helen pulled a dagger from her bodice, arching it over her head as she drew near the head table, eyes fixed on the prince.

Frantic, Merlin scanned around the room, searching for watching eyes as well as a strategy. His eyes alighted on the heavy, iron candelabra hanging in the center of the hall, and, with a quick check at its trajectory, he severed the chain with a burst of magic.

The candelabra collapsed with a catastrophic bang of metal on stone, nearly drowning out Lady Helen’s shriek, but Merlin still heard it, wincing at the sound.

The instant Lady Helen’s singing ceased, people began to rouse, and Merlin let out a soft sigh of relief as he saw Arthur and Morgana stirring. Stepping into the room now, he turned to the right, watching as Gwen lifted her head from where she had collapsed against the wall, and then looked back to the center of the room, his mouth dropping open.

Where Lady Helen had lain only moments ago, there was now an old woman, withered and wrinkled, her grey hair hanging over her face in stringy curtains. She rasped out a breath, lifting her head, and Merlin’s eyes darted to her arm as she pulled it free of the debris.

The knife glittered as she held it overhead, her arm pulling back to throw, and, as Merlin watched the pure hatred burning in her eyes, it occurred to him he could just let this be.

He could allow the dagger to find its target, the point piercing true and final. It was inevitable that Arthur would somehow need to be kept from procuring the throne, but, as Merlin looked back to the blond man, bleary-eyed and confused as he woke, his stomach clenched in revolt against this knowledge. It was too soon, no Once and Future King prepared to take over, and it would not help to lose Arthur while Uther was still in power; there would just be another heir named, another person in their way. This was all very logical—good, solid reasons for him not to interfere—but, as the dagger flew free from the woman’s hand, all that was truly blaring in Merlin’s mind was Arthur’s voice calling after him.

_Looking forward to it, idiot._

Merlin’s magic reached out ahead of him as he ran, the knife slowing as it spun through the air. His fingers clenched into Arthur’s arm, digging into the leather, and he pulled, pushing back on his feet, the momentum sending them toppling to the floor as time resumed as normal.

The knife sunk into the heavy, wooden chair with a chilling thump, and Arthur scrambled up onto his elbows, staring at it in slack jawed horror. He then rounded on Merlin, his breathing ragged and eyes wide. “Merlin,” he breathed, blue eyes pinning Merlin to the spot and sending his stomach into wild contortions.

“You- You saved my boy’s life!”

Merlin started, watching as Arthur did the same, and they both turned to find Uther approaching, a broad smile on his face.

“A debt must be repaid!” he added as he lowered a hand to Arthur, tugging his son up as Merlin pushed to his feet in front of them.

“Oh, well…” Merlin murmured, ducking his head from the stares of the room.

“Don't be so modest. You shall be rewarded!” Uther continued, nodding superiorly.

“No, honestly, you don't have to, Your Majesty,” Merlin tried again, but Uther shook his head.

“No, absolutely. This merits something quite special.” He was grinning proudly, and Merlin realized he was not getting out of this unscathed.

“Well…” he relented with a small smile.

“You shall be awarded a position in the royal household!” he announced, and Merlin’s stomach clenched. “I believe the kitchens are in need of-”

“Father, if I may?” Arthur interjected, and Merlin thought he could say just about anything and it would be better than the kitchens. “Being that it was my life Merlin saved, and, seeing as my manservant has, er…eloped, perhaps it would be more prudent to-”

“Of course, of course,” Uther replied jovially, clapping Arthur on the shoulder. “The boy will be Arthur’s manservant,” he announced to the hall, and the room broke into applause.

Merlin was conflicted, to say the least, his eyes scanning over the smiling faces of the crowd. Their expressions clearly indicated that he should be nothing less than thrilled with the honor that had been bestowed him, and he wondered how many of them would not hesitate to have a personal hand in his slaughter if they knew his true nature and purpose. Then he looked back to Arthur, and the small smile that met him over a red-cloaked shoulder could not help but be returned, even as a sinking feeling grew in his gut at the realization that he was already in much deeper than he’d ever intended.

When Merlin returned to his room that night, laden down with armor to polish and boots to oil, Gaius was waiting, and Merlin hurried through his congratulations as quickly as possible in order to retire to his room. He tossed his armful onto the bed, the metal clanging together, and then reached into his pack, casting a quick silencing spell around the perimeter. He only had to wait a moment for Nimueh’s face to appear in the mirror, a sure sign that she had been waiting, and he quickly imparted the new developments, although he left out mentioning Morgana, a deep uncertainty within him holding him back from revealing her.

“This is marvelous news, Emrys,” Nimueh replied, her rare smile feral. “The fools are practically handing the kingdom to us!”

“Milady?” Merlin asked, confused.

Nimueh only smiled broader, raising the hair on Merlin’s neck. “Your position as Arthur’s manservant will give us more access to the castle than I had ever dared _dream_! And, of course, when the time comes, you will be perfectly poised to eliminate him.”

“E-Eliminate him?” Merlin repeated, panicked and flustered. “But, Mistress, surely it would be best to attempt a peaceful resolution before-”

“They do not deserve peace!” Nimueh shouted, her eyes glowing gold, and Merlin flinched even though it was impossible for him to be affected here. “You _will_ kill the prince, Emrys. It is your destiny. But, if you do not believe you can accomplish the task-”

“No,” he blurted, knowing he could give her no room to doubt him, to send someone else to complete the job. “No, I-I will do what must be done. My apologies, Mistress.” He forced to keep his face impassive as Nimueh studied him, not daring to even breathe until she nodded.

“Very well. Keep me informed,” she snapped, and then her image dissolved into his own pale face.

A breath rattled out of him, his hands shaking as he rewrapped the mirror and lowered it to the bed beside him. His eyes landed on the pile of armor on his quilt, the plates and mail that had been entrusted into his care, designed so carefully to protect what he was destined to destroy. He stared at his rippled reflection in the helmet, the twisted version of himself somehow a more accurate depiction that even the most talented portrait artist could achieve. He turned away with a sigh, hanging his head and catching his face in his palms.

“Oh, Mum,” he breathed with a small shake of his head, pleading for direction, and yet, as always, he was on his own.

\---

Arthur had no idea what he’d done wrong. If he was someone to whom the option of simply asking was available, he would, of course, have asked. But, as it stood, he was a prince, and therefore doomed to watch from afar and scowl, chasing his thoughts in circles to come up with an explanation why Merlin was currently laughing with the stable boys when he hadn’t so much as smiled at Arthur all week.

For the past week since Merlin had been in Arthur’s service, he had been respectful, efficient, and perfectly unobtrusive. In short, a completely different person than the man Arthur had met. He was never outright rude—which, if anything, only added to Arthur’s unease—but he never met Arthur’s eyes when he dressed him or fastened his armor, always tried to slip in and out unnoticed when he delivered meals, and never spoke unless addressed. On the rare occasions when he couldn’t forgo eye contact entirely, there was a strange sadness in his eyes, a pain that seemed to plague him from within, and Arthur couldn’t understand it.

He wasn’t a bad master, not that he was aware of. Merlin’s duties were not out of bounds of anything any other servant would be asked to do, and yet he looked thoroughly miserable every second he spent in Arthur’s presence. Luckily, there was less time for Arthur to notice it now.

Camelot was holding a tournament at the end of the week, open to knights from all over the five kingdoms. He had been training vigorously to prepare, knowing the expectations on his shoulders, and his knights, for the most part, were looking better than ever. He hoped he would be facing one of them in the final challenge, proving that Camelot’s knights were superior, but, if not, he felt confident he could prevail against whatever opponent he faced. The visiting knights would begin arriving in a few days, and the hunting parties would have to head out, bringing back enough meat to supply the feasts throughout the course of the weekend tournament. He had already planned to go out himself with a small group of his knights, and was intending, as was customary, for Merlin to accompany him. As things stood, however…

His eyes drifted to the now familiar swatch of red on the edge of his vision, _Pendragon_ red, _his_ red. He watched as the stable boys laughed riotously at something Merlin said, one of them grabbing onto the man’s shoulder to steady himself, Merlin’s blue tunic bunching under his grip.

Arthur’s hand tightened around his sword.

“Alright, that’s enough for today!” he shouted, and the sparring around him ceased, the knights stowing their swords.

“Already?” Owain jeered, lifting his arms, sword shining in his hand. “I was only just warmed up!”

Arthur barely refrained from rolling his eyes. “You’ll get your chance at the tournament, Owain,” he replied, hoping his distaste wasn’t too obvious. “It won’t do any good to over-train now.”

Owain was still smiling smugly, but he sheathed his sword.

“You’re all dismissed,” Arthur called, and the group began to disperse, breaking into smaller groups and chatting amicably, some of them rubbing at a shoulder or side where they’d taken a hit. Arthur waved at Leon, signaling him to stay behind, and the man crossed the training ground toward him.

“Sire?” Leon asked with a small bow Arthur couldn’t seem to convince him was unnecessary.

“I was wondering when you thought we should head out for the hunt,” Arthur replied.

“Whenever you wish to leave, Sire,” Leon promptly answered, his back straightening. “I can have the men and horses prepared in a matter of hours.”

Arthur sighed, wondering if Leon would ever stop being so frustratingly formal. “I don’t have a particular time in mind, Leon, that’s why I’m asking you. When do _you_ think would be best?”

Leon’s brows twitched together. “Well, I-I imagine tomorrow would be just as good a day as any, Sire. Leaves us a bit of time in case animals are scarce.”

“Very good,” Arthur said, nodding. “See that the men are prepared. I’ll talk to the stable hands myself.”

Leon nodded, bowed ( _again_ ), and began walking back to the castle, following after the other knights.

Arthur turned toward the stables, watching the insipid interaction still going on, and his jaw clenched as he strode over. “You there!” he barked, and the stable boys startled to attention, one of them coughing as he choked around a laugh. “I need horses prepared for tomorrow. Mine, Sir Leon’s, Sir Owain’s, Sir Pellinore’s, Sir Bedivere’s, and Sir Geraint’s.”

The boys bowed deeply in response, and then began scuttling away, but Arthur called them to a stop with a split-second decision.

“Oh, and one for Merlin, as well,” he muttered, as if it were an afterthought and not something he’d been agonizing over. He pretended not to notice the way Merlin’s head whipped around in his peripheral vision. “Whichever one can keep up.”

The boys nodded before continuing their escape, and Arthur realized he was now alone with a staring Merlin.

The air thickened between them as he turned, organizing his face into something casual.

“I’m going with you?” Merlin asked, and Arthur cursed himself for the way his stomach clenched at the sound of Merlin’s voice, as unaccustomed as he was to hearing it lately.

“Of course,” he answered, smiling as he met inquisitive, blue eyes, only deeper and darker over the blue tunic that seemed to be the only one Merlin owned. “You’re my manservant. Who else is going to pack the provisions? And fetch water and cook meals once we’re out there?”

“Something wrong with your hands?” Merlin countered, eyebrows lifting in faux innocence.

Arthur fought to keep his smile in check, but all he wanted to do was grin because _Merlin was being an idiot again_! “No, _Mer_ lin,” he replied, “but it’s not _my_ job, is it?”

Merlin narrowed his eyes at him, and Arthur was eagerly anticipating the next charge in their verbal joust, but then Merlin seemed to remember himself, or perhaps forget, and he blinked, his face shuttering to impassive. “My apologies, Sire,” he muttered, his tone low and cold as he dipped his head.

Suddenly, irrationally, Arthur felt a swell of anger, remembering the easy manner in which the somber man in front of him had just minutes earlier been laughing with the stable hands. “Make sure to pack enough food for a few days. And no mince pies. Cook’s most recent batch is awful,” he snapped, growing even more frustrated when Merlin only bowed again. “And polish my armor. And oil my boots. And I think there might be some sort of insect infestation in my cupboard. Ya know, you really are _rubbish_ at cleaning, Merlin; I don’t know why I keep you around.”

“I couldn’t begin to guess at it myself, Sire,” Merlin answered, his voice so brittle, Arthur felt it like a physical blow, a blast of winter wind cutting through his armor.

His anger faltered, giving way to confusion as he searched Merlin’s face, looking for some hint of the reason behind the ice in his gaze, but Merlin turned away, and Arthur actually found it a little bit comforting to see his hands were clenched into fists.

\---

Fire. There was fire everywhere, roaring in his ears along with his own scream.

_‘Merlin.’_

The stinging cuts over his body dripped sluggishly, trying to heal themselves even as more were inflicted.

_‘Merlin.’_

Something cold and heavy weighed down his leg at the ankle, cutting into the skin with a searing pain, and he knew there was no escape.

_‘MERLIN!’_

He awoke with a gasp, already sitting up, the linens twisted around his legs and draping onto the floor. Panting, he clutched a hand to his chest, his heart playing thunderously against his fingers as he searched the moonlit room, but there was no one and nothing there.

_‘Merlin.’_

He started, turning his head side to side, but he could not tell which direction the voice was coming from. It sounded almost as if…

_‘Merlin.’_

His eyes widened, and now he was sure, having spent enough time with Druids to recognize the sensation.

 _‘Who are you?’_ he thought back, his eyes still scanning warily.

 _‘Come to me and I will tell you,’_ the voice answered, deep and gravelly and eerily familiar.

Merlin opened his mouth, but his questions turned into a gasp as images of corridors and staircases swept through his mind, forming a path through the castle. “Well,” he breathed as the invasion ceased, and he could feel he was alone in his thoughts once more, “ _that_ was unsettling.” He got out of bed, though, dressing hastily before creeping past Gaius with a quick silencing charm on his feet.

The castle was quiet, his disillusionment charm hardly more than a precaution, and he made it to the caverns without encountering anyone, lighting the torches along the stone staircase with a wave of his hand. Weaving through the tunnels at the bottom, guided by his internal map, he stepped through a carved archway and found himself on a ledge overlooking a massive cave. He peered over the edge, a few loose stones skittering away with his steps, and he watched as they bounced between the larger rocks below, clicking off the surface before plunging into the darkness of an unseen floor. Stepping back onto firmer ground, he conjured a light, the glowing ball hovering over his head.

“Hello?” he called tentatively, his voice echoing off the rough, curved walls. “Is anyone here?”

“I am, young warlock.”

The walls seemed to shake with the voice, and Merlin leapt back at a sudden rush of noise and wind, his light flickering with his panic. A blast of dust and small flecks of rock hit him, and he lifted his arm, projecting a shield. There was a loud scraping sound, a whipping snap like a flag in wind, and then nothing, the air silent and still except for the faint skittering of still-falling stones.

Merlin opened his eyes, blinking away dust, and, as he lowered his arm and looked back out into the cave, he had to rub his eyes.

“Hello, Emrys,” the _dragon_ said, smiling to show the tips of his _teeth_. “It took me much longer to get through to you than I expected; your defenses are impressive. Although, I suppose living with Druids does necessitate some precautions with ones thoughts.” The dragon chuckled, actually _chuckled_ , like it wasn’t a gigantic, talking, mythical lizard.

“You- You- You’re a dragon,” Merlin breathed, very coherently, his eyes bulging.

The dragon smiled, more white teeth revealed against dark scales that glittered in the light of Merlin’s magic. “That, I am. I am Kilgharrah, the last of my kind. As are you, young warlock,” he said, dipping his head closer, and Merlin’s muscles clenched even as he stood his ground. “How small you are, for such a great destiny,” the dragon- _Kilgharrah_ murmured, golden eyes searching. “And how very like your father. I see much of him in you.”

Merlin blinked, surprised out of his trance. “My father?” he asked with a small step forward, somehow knowing deep down that Kilgharrah meant him no harm. “You knew my father?”

Kilgharrah nodded. “Many years ago. He brought me here. It is how Uther captured me.”

Merlin’s head was shaking dazedly, overwhelmed with information and questions. “Captured? How did Uther capture you? And what do you mean, my father _brought_ you here?”

Kilgharrah’s eyebrows furrowed, or, at least, the ridges of spikes over his eyes shifted together. “You do not know, do you?” he asked softly, seemingly more to himself. “Do you know how your father died, Merlin?”

Merlin’s jaw locked. “Yes,” he growled. “He was accused of magic here in Camelot. Uther’s forces found him in Ealdor and brought him back for execution.” It was the simple version he told everyone, the bare facts, devoid of emotion.

“But do you know _why_ he was accused of magic?” Kilgharrah pressed, and Merlin’s fist clenched.

“Probably because he was doing magic,” he snapped, his temper pulled too taut to care he was talking back to a creature who could probably incinerate him with a sneeze.

Kilgharrah’s eyes narrowed, and Merlin cared again. “Uther called your father to Camelot to summon me,” the dragon began. “He claimed he wanted to make peace, to stop the slaughter of my kind, but we were both of us deceived, your father and I. Uther imprisoned me, kept me alive here beneath his castle as a trophy, and, your father, he turned on, seeking to eliminate the last of his breed.”

“His breed?” Merlin repeated, forehead creasing.

Kilgharrah nodded solemnly. “The Dragonlords.”

Merlin blinked. And then again. And then once more. “What?” he croaked, expecting Kilgharrah to burst into laughter, but the dragon didn’t seem to be the joking kind.

“Your father was the last Dragonlord,” he continued, and Merlin’s stomach felt like it was dropping into the endless abyss beneath his ledge, “and, upon his death, his gift was passed to you. We are all that is left of our kin.”

Merlin’s mouth opened and closed several times before he could force his vocal cords to comply. “No,” he sputtered, shaking his head in quick, darting motions. “No, you- You have the wrong person. I-I’m not- I _can’t_ be- My mother would have told me.” His words were coming fast, voice shattered and quivering. “She would have told me if I was- if my father was…” He trailed off, trying to get a hold on the rhythm of his panting breaths.

“I am sorry, Emrys,” Kilgharrah said, patient but firm. “I do not know why your mother kept your birthright a secret—perhaps to protect you from suffering your father’s fate—but, I assure you, it is true. You are the last Dragonlord. It is how I was able to call you here.”

“Why _did_ you call me here?” Merlin snarled, suddenly angry, though he had no idea at whom.

His father for giving him nothing but another reason to be hunted, or for not being there to explain it? His mother for never telling him, for dying? Or maybe it was himself for getting into a mess he was beginning to suspect was already way over his head.

Kilgharrah did not seem riled by his attack. If anything, he seemed to grow a little sad, retracting his long neck away. “I told you, Merlin,” he said, surprisingly soft for a dragon, and the use of his given name eased the scowl from Merlin’s face. “We are the last of our kind. I, the last dragon, and you, the last Dragonlord. We are all that remains.”

Merlin felt something tug in his chest as the dragon turned away, a sadness that was not his own in origin, but that he felt all the same, and he knew just as deeply that Kilgharrah had been telling the truth. “I-I’m sorry,” he stammered, dropping his face to his feet. “I just… It’s a lot. To take in.”

Kilgharrah looked back to him with a faint lift of his mouth and nodded, and it seemed to be an acceptance. He did not speak, however, and, after a few, long moments, Merlin broke the silence.

“So, what…what does it mean?” he asked, curious now that his anger had dissipated.

“Mean?” Kilgharrah inquired, leaning forward once more.

“Being a Dragonlord,” Merlin elaborated, the words still strange on his tongue. “What do I, er… Can I…do anything?”

Kilgharrah chuckled, and Merlin smiled weakly back, feeling very, _very_ small. “You can communicate with dragons,” he said, as if this was obvious, and, as Merlin thought about it, he supposed it was. “You can feel them in your conscience, speak to them in their native tongue, and, if you would will it, control them.”

“Control them?” Merlin questioned, his stomach writhing in objection to the idea.

“If you desire,” Kilgharrah answered, seemingly untroubled. “If you command a dragon in Dragon Tongue, it cannot refuse.”

“But you’re talking to me now,” Merlin said hesitantly, listening carefully in case he had unwittingly slipped into a foreign language.

“Just because I am no longer given opportunities to speak to humans does not mean I am incapable,” Kilgharrah replied, sounding more amused than chiding, but the words sent a wave of sadness over Merlin.

“How long have you been here?” he asked, his eyes roving over the walls, noticing for the first time the long gashes in the stone.

“How old are you?” Kilgharrah replied, eyes hard, and Merlin dropped his head.

He supposed it was a rather foolish question, but, still, twenty years trapped in this dark damp cave. It was unthinkable.

“I could get you out,” Merlin offered. “I work in the castle; I could get the key.” He gestured to the manacle around Kilgharrah’s leg.

Kilgharrah smiled, inclining his head. “I know you would, young warlock, but now is not the time. Uther sends men down here on occasion. To ensure I am still in his prison or to taunt me, I am uncertain, but he would notice I was gone and only hunt me again. No, I will never truly be free until the Once and Future King ascends his throne.” He leaned down to Merlin, his expression grave. “Which is another reason I called you, Merlin. The time of your destiny draws near.”

“What do you mean?” Merlin asked, urgent and intrigued as he stepped closer. “Is the Once and Future King here? In Camelot?”

“He will reveal himself to you when you are ready,” Kilgharrah answered, which was really no answer at all.

“But do you know who it is?” Merlin tried again, irritation mounting.

Kilgharrah tilted his head. “I cannot divulge that to you, young warlock. Fate is a path travelled in its own time. I will only tell you to be wary; there are many who would wish to see you fail.”

Merlin pressed his mouth tight, biting at the inside of his bottom lip as he dropped his head to the ground for a moment, collecting himself. He sighed, and lifted his eyes back to golden ones with a nod of resignation. “Thank you,” he said, because there was clearly nothing else for it at the moment.

His eyes caught on something past Kilgharrah’s head, and he looked up to find patches of the wall streaked with the dull, grey light of impending dawn. “I have to go,” he said, looking back to the dragon. “Arthur’s heading out on a hunt at dawn.”

Kilgharrah gave him a short nod, as if he had already known, and that wouldn’t even surprise Merlin at this point.

“Can I…come back? Sometime?” he asked hesitantly, fiddling with his fingers in front of him.

At that, Kilgharrah smiled. “Any time you wish, young warlock,” he replied, and Merlin smiled broadly back.

He turned, and was halfway through the archway when Kilgharrah’s voice stalled him.

“You should not be so quick to judge him,” he said, his tone heavy with a meaning Merlin could not parse out. “Arthur is not your enemy in this fight.”

Merlin saw a reaching expanse of dark wings, and then Kilgharrah was gone, leaving only a dusty brunt of wind and the ever-fading jingle of a chain. He stood there a moment longer, blinking into the empty darkness, and then began the trek to Arthur’s rooms, his face frowning in thought that only led to more confusion.

\---

Arthur glanced behind him on pretense of checking how the horses were making their way through the forest.

Merlin had chosen to ride as far back as he could, just in front of the knight guarding the rear, Sir Owain, and Arthur smiled sadistically as he watched the pale boy’s mouth twist into a grimace, no doubt in response to whatever joke Owain had just told. He clearly thought it was hilarious, judging by his own laughter, but Merlin’s hands only tightened on the reins, paling even further under the pressure.

Arthur chuckled just as Merlin looked up, eyes immediately finding his, as if Merlin had sensed the gaze, or perhaps he had been checking on Arthur too. Arthur was going to go ahead and believe the latter. He smiled cheekily back at Merlin, hoping the ‘You could have been up here, but _nooo_ ’ was clearly telegraphed in his expression, and, if Merlin’s answering scowl was any measure, the message had been received. He turned back to the trail ahead with a smile still lingering on his face, only managing to smother it when he caught Leon giving him a perplexed frown.

The group passed the trip in relative silence, only muttering and Owain’s juvenile chortling interrupting the steady sounds of the forest, and it was not long before they reached their usual campsite, a spot Arthur usually had great luck hunting at. He lifted his hand in signal, and everyone quickly dismounted, stretching and groaning as they kneaded their backs with their hands. He turned to give the order, but Merlin was already obliging, helping unstrap packs and gathering the horses. Arthur watched as he led them to a large patch of level ground nearby, patting their sides and murmuring softly as the horses shook the trip from their muscles.

“Should we set up camp now, Sire?” Leon said from behind him, and Arthur contained his jump to a mere twitch of his shoulders.

“Probably best,” Arthur replied, turning to the older knight. “It may be late when we return, and we don’t want to be attempting it in the dark.”

Leon nodded, starting back to the clearing.

“And put the cloths up; it looks like it may rain,” he added, and Leon nodded again over his shoulder.

Arthur turned back, caught Merlin’s eye and beckoned him to follow, and then headed to where his own pack had been deposited, unravelling the ties and beginning to unfurl the bedrolls.

Merlin hovered, hands twisting in front of him.

“Here,” Arthur said, tossing a length of rope up at him. “Start stringing up the wax cloth between these trees.” He gestured to two nearby pines standing about five feet apart. “You’ll have to find rocks or something to secure the ends; we didn’t bring pegs.”

“I do know how to put up a tent,” Merlin snapped, and Arthur smiled down into his pack.

“I don’t doubt it,” he replied, completely sincere, but Merlin still huffed, and he could hear twigs cracking as his footfalls moved away.

They worked in silence, Merlin swinging the large white cloth over a central, taut rope tied between the two trees before beginning to stretch the four corners close to the ground with weighted ties. Arthur busied himself with his bedroll, unwrapping and unfurling it as Merlin worked the fluttering cloth above him. There was a particularly loud rustle, and, as Arthur turned, he was smothered by the slick white fabric.

“What in the-” he bleated, scrabbling at the cloth.

“Shit, sorry!”

The shroud was pulled back, lifting away to reveal urgent blue eyes. Merlin held the material over his head, creating a triangular sort of tunnel up from Arthur to his face. “It’s slipperier than I thought,” he chuckled, smiling sheepishly, and Arthur’s heart tumbled even as he fought to glower.

“Careful, _Mer_ lin,” he replied, extricating himself from the folds and getting to his feet as Merlin stepped away to give him room, “or you’ll be sleeping out in the rain.”

Merlin tilted his head, a small crease forming between his brows. “I-I thought- Don’t I…have my own?” He waved a hand at the disaster of a tent, a soft pout forming on his face, and Arthur bit his lip to keep from grinning at how young he looked.

“We only have four,” Arthur replied, gesturing out over the campsite, where the knights had paired off to set up their own tents. “All but one of us has to share, but you’re welcome to bunk with Owain if you’d rather.” He waved an arm out to where Owain was setting up his own tent, or trying to, at least, but he seemed to be doing more angry grumbling at a tangled rope than anything productive.

Merlin watched the man for a moment, mouth curling in distaste. “No, I- It’s fine, I’ll just…stay with you.”

Arthur tried not to smile too broadly. His competition was Owain, after all. It was hardly a victory. He was still going to rub it in just a little though. “Are you sure?” he asked, tilting his head and frowning innocently. “You and Owain seemed to get along quite well on the way here.”

Merlin snorted, rolling his eyes. “If I hear one more joke about how big his _bloody_ cock is…” He left the threat to the imagination, glaring across the clearing at Owain, and Arthur couldn’t stop himself.

He exploded into laughter, vainly trying to stifle it with a fist, but that only led to silent shaking as he bent double, gasping for air when he could manage. A lower laugh joined him, and he looked up, wiping his eyes to clear the image of Merlin leaning against a nearby tree.

He was covering his mouth with the back of his hand, and, as he lowered it to reveal a blinding grin, Arthur felt lighter than he had in days.

“Er, Sire?”

Arthur coughed, still wheezing slightly as he righted himself to meet Leon’s curious gaze, his eyes shifting between them.

“We’re ready to head out,” Leon said, his mouth lifting briefly in acknowledgement at Merlin.

Arthur cleared his throat as he nodded. “Right. Very good. Let me just-” He pointed to the half-constructed tent, but Merlin cut him off.

“I can finish it,” he assured, jerking his tousled head at the draping fabric.

Arthur’s feet shifted uncertainly in the dirt. “Are you sure about that? You’ve only managed one rope so far.”

Merlin merely smiled. “Better a little which is well done, than a great deal imperfectly,” he replied with a sage nod, and Arthur lifted an eyebrow.

“Plato,” Leon blurted, flattening his smile and dropping his head as Arthur rounded on him.

Merlin blinked, and then smiled, giving Leon a nod as he appraised him, clearly impressed.

Arthur was just uncomfortable. “Alright, let’s head out,” he barked, and Leon straightened to attention. “You can join us when you’re finished, if you’d like,” he offered to Merlin, trying not to show his personal feelings on the matter.

Merlin smiled, but it was tight, and his eyes flitted away from Arthur’s. “Yeah, I’ll- I’ll try,” he said with a rattling nod, and Arthur felt rather stupid for presuming.

Of course Merlin wasn’t the hunting type. He probably captured spiders he found in his boots and released them back into the wild.

Arthur nodded quickly, trying for a smile, but it probably looked more like an embarrassed grimace, and then he turned away, walking with Leon to join the rest of the knights.

“Interesting boy,” Leon remarked, head turning to Arthur in his peripheral vision.

Arthur hummed.

“Do you suppose he knows Aristotle as well?”

Arthur shot a glare up at him, but it was now Leon’s turn to look determinedly forward. Arthur didn’t miss the slight quirk of his mouth, though, but, as they reached the knights, he had to swallow his retort.

They started off as a group, but, as more and more tracks were found, they began to split off, all agreeing to return to the camp by dusk. Eventually, it was just Arthur and Leon, and, when the trail they were following split apart, he managed to convince a begrudging Leon to allow him to continue alone.

Arthur enjoyed the solitude of the woods, having escaped the stone walls of the castle for the smell of dirt and pine more times than he could count throughout his youth. Even now, when the pressure was growing with every day closer to his coming of age, he still found solace here, forgetting the inevitable with a temporary salve of birdsong and fading sunlight. And…voices?

Arthur lifted his crossbow, lowering his eyes to the ground as his footsteps grew careful, finding soft dirt amongst dried leaves and twigs. The rocks grew high around him, and he picked a path around them as the voice grew louder. Ahead, he could see the rocks diminished, leaving an open clearing, and he crouched down beside a particularly large boulder, readying the crossbow at his chest. With a steadying breath, he leaned out from his hiding place, arrow aimed into the glen, and then he promptly almost dropped the weapon.

“You shouldn’t be here,” Merlin said softly, stroking the shimmering white flank of what appeared to be…

A white horn caught on a beam of sunlight, and Arthur lowered his crossbow, hardly daring to believe it even as his eyes left no doubt. A unicorn. There was a unicorn less than three meters away. And Merlin was _petting_ it.

“They’re hunting out around here, and most of them would probably kill you on sight.”

The unicorn snorted, as if in indignation, and the half of Merlin’s face Arthur could see curled up in a small smile.

“Well, Leon would leave you alone, I think,” he added, stroking through the white mane with his almost equally pale fingers. “Pellinore too, but I’m not so sure about the others.”

The unicorn shifted, pushing its neck into Merlin’s shoulder as it curled its head back toward him.

“Arthur might,” Merlin continued, and Arthur’s back straightened as he stretched forward from his crouched hiding place. “Probably depends on if he were alone. He’d have to shoot you if the other knights were around. Masculinity on the line and whatnot.”

Arthur ducked his head, mouth quivering with a suppressed chuckle, and, when he looked up, he found the unicorn’s dark eyes on him. He froze, pinned by the creature’s gaze, and, as he stared back, he couldn’t help but feel as though it were speaking to him, communicating something he simply did not have the tools to decipher. It was strange, but not uncomfortable, and a sense of calm settled over him before the beast looked away. He gently laid his crossbow on the ground, silently rising to his feet and taking a slow step forward.

“I hope you’re not intending to keep it,” he said, and Merlin jumped, spinning around, his eyes wide with alarm. “I think Gaius would notice a unicorn in your room.”

Merlin didn’t reply, only closed his mouth, eyes flicking fearfully between Arthur and the unicorn.

Arthur saw the exact moment he remembered what he’d been talking about before Arthur’s appearance, his eyebrows shooting up in horror. “I didn’t know unicorns still existed,” Arthur said by way of easing his panic, looking toward the creature as he eased forward.

The unicorn snorted, tossing its head, but made no move to flee.

“I don’t think there are many left,” Merlin answered, looking more normal now as he turned back to the unicorn, resuming his strokes over the muscled neck. “Unicorns are creatures of magic,” he said, softly enough to carry extra meaning, and Arthur stopped within a meter from the animal, a roll of fear and guilt pulling at his stomach.

The unicorn stepped forward, halving the distance between them, and Arthur inhaled sharply at the approach, shoulders lifting as he stiffened.

Merlin looked a bit surprised himself, moving back from the animal’s side as he looked between them with furrowed brows. His eyebrows then shot up his forehead as the unicorn moved again, coming so close, Arthur could feel its breath over his chest.

“Er,” he murmured, because he felt he should say something, and the unicorn bent its head in response, nosing at his hand. “Al-Alright,” he stammered, obliging the unspoken command by brushing his fingers tentatively over the animal’s snout.

It was warm, hair softer than any horse, and Arthur smiled disbelievingly as he grew more confident, shifting closer to stroke through the mane. With a small chuckle, he looked up, beaming at Merlin, but the look on the other man’s face quickly flattened his smile.

Merlin had gone pale, which was saying something in and of itself, and he was blinking copiously, jaw slack as he stared at where Arthur’s hand met the white hair.

“Merlin?” Arthur questioned, concerned. “Are you al-”

There was a loud scream from behind him, and Arthur spun, hand clasping the handle of his sword. The unicorn bolted past him and away, and he realized suddenly how dark the evening had settled in around them, the animal apparently having been emitting some sort of glow. In its absence now, twilight was thickening, only traces of purple light left in the trees, but Arthur charged toward the shout anyway, Merlin’s footfalls directly behind him.

More shouting could be heard as they drew closer, changing direction every so often to follow the noise, and then an unnatural blood-curdling shriek echoed through the dark trees, Merlin’s shoulder jarring against the back of his as they both froze.

Arthur turned to the right, meeting Merlin’s eyes, but he looked just as terrified as Arthur felt. Still, they both faced front in wordless synchronicity, taking off again toward the sound. As they grew closer, there was the unmistakable sound of swords clanging, as well as a cacophony of screams in many different voices. They jumped through a patch of undergrowth and, for the first time, caught a glimpse of the chaos.

There were a handful of wagons scattered over the trail, all but one overturned, contents spilled and broken across the ground. Arthur could make out the red capes and glittering swords of some of his knights, but there were several other people as well, all running and screaming as they went. They appeared to be villagers, mostly women and young children, and Arthur’s knights—Pellinore and Bedivere, he could see now—were moving backwards at the rear of the group, stabbing and swiping at a creature that looked as if it had been spawned from nightmares.

It had the head of an eagle, a large, black beak clicking toward the knights while it swiped at them with front feet that looked like gargantuan paws with talons. Down the creature’s body, the feathers shifted to hair, the back half of the monster resembling something like a lion, tail swishing through the air.

Sir Pellinore lunged forward, jabbing his sword toward the beast’s face, and, as the creature reared up, Arthur saw the wings extending, huge and blacker than even the shadows that closed in around them. They batted around the sides of the animal, sending out a blast of air that Arthur could feel even from where he stood, and it sent Pellinore and Bedivere staggering back.

“Get the villagers away!” he shouted at Merlin as he pulled his sword from its sheath, charging forward. He swiped at the front leg of the monster as it extended toward Pellinore, jumping in front of the man. Shouting, he lunged forward, jabbing at the feathered chest of the creature. His sword splintered with a ringing impact, shards of silver raining over the ground at the beast’s clawed feet, and he stumbled backward, staring dazedly at the broken length still attached to the hilt. The monster shrieked above him, stretching up on its hind legs and clawing at the air, and Arthur could do nothing but watch as his name rung around the clearing in Merlin’s desperate voice.

Suddenly, he was on the ground, a fresh ache in his shoulder from a heavy impact, and he looked up to see a man standing above him, forcing the creature back with a sword.

He was a good fighter, slashing and stabbing with practiced precision, but, as the monster descended with a well-aimed swipe, the man’s sword shattered over him, his block failing, and the glittering talons sank into his chest.

“Arthur!” Merlin called again, this time clearly beckoning, and he turned to find a sword arcing toward him, Merlin’s arm still outstretched from the throw. He surged up, plucking it from the air by the grip, and then twisted his feet as he swung at the advancing creature.

The man fell to the ground beside him, and Arthur tried not to see the blood blossoming over his chest as he thrust out at the monster, Pellinore and Bedivere flanking him, their own swords outstretched. From somewhere behind him, he could hear more shouting, and a flickering, orange light appeared on the ground, casting their shadows ahead.

Leon reached his side, stepping forward to swing a torch out at the beast, and the monster clicked its beak at the air, head and shoulders thrashing. Leon lunged forward with a shout, and the animal reared up as it backed away, coming down on all fours only to turn around and snap its wings, disappearing up into the darkness with a cracking of branches and rippling of wind.

Arthur lowered his sword, staring up after it for a moment before a pained gasp reached up to him. He turned, replacing his weapon at his side as he knelt down beside the man who had saved him.

He was young, likely not much older than Arthur himself, and the torchlight revealed his slightly darker complexion and thick brown hair. There were three distinct slashes stretching down his grey tunic, and they looked deep, blood spreading everywhere. He was awake, though, even if he was clearly in pain, and Arthur gripped his shoulder in support as the man looked up at him.

“Help me!” he bellowed, pulling the man up to sitting as he grabbed one of his arms and slung it over his shoulder.

Pellinore knelt on the other side, and together they hoisted the man to standing as he grunted with the pain of the motion.

“We have to get him back to camp,” Arthur ordered, and they turned, slowly moving forward with the man’s shuffling steps.

“The- The villagers,” the man bit out between panting gasps. “We have wounded.”

Arthur looked up, and the remaining knights and Merlin all nodded in unison before running ahead of them in the direction the villagers had fled. “They’ll find them,” Arthur assured, and he felt the man nod. “What’s your name?” he asked, wanting to know, and wanting to keep the man talking and awake.

“Lancelot,” the man grunted as he struggled over the rocky ground.

“You saved my life, Lancelot,” Arthur said, turning his head under the man’s arm to catch a glimpse of his face, sweat-sheened in the dim moonlight.

“It was my honor, Sire,” Lancelot answered, noticeably weaker.

“And it may yet be again,” Arthur replied as he tightened his hold on Lancelot’s arm. “You are not dying here today, Lancelot.”

“Yes, Sire,” the man answered, thought there was nothing but propriety behind it, and Arthur urged their procession on faster.

It did not take them too long to reach the camp, but, in just that time, it had transformed completely. All the wax cloths had been drafted together to create a single large tent, rigged so a flap extended down the front. There were three fires going, all of them with some sort of pot or kettle hanging over the top, and the knights were rushing around the clearing, their cloaks and bedrolls now distributed and wrapped around huddled groups of frightened peasants.

Arthur searched amidst the chaos, looking for Merlin before he even knew it, and then a commanding shout came from across the camp.

“I need more water!” Merlin appeared from a flurry of white cloth as he pushed away the front of the tent, his arm swiping across his forehead and leaving a muddled smear of dirt and what could only be blood. His eyes found Arthur’s, and his shoulders visibly sank a little in relief, but then his gaze drifted lower to Lancelot, and he beckoned them hastily forward. “Put him down here,” he said, and, for once, Arthur didn’t mind being ordered.

They laid Lancelot just underneath one of the draped sheets of cloth overhead, the man having finally succumbed to unconsciousness, and it was only then that Arthur caught a glimpse of the full damage the monster had done.

There were at least six people in what he saw now was the designated medical tent, all of them visibly splattered in various levels of blood. Most of them were bandaged, red splotches seeping through the coverings, and there were two children, their pale faces draining the color from Arthur’s own.

“They’re going to be fine,” Merlin said softly, and Arthur’s eyes shifted to find blue ones looking at him with a calm, level gaze. “The children only have minor lacerations, and most of the other injuries are burns I can just treat and wrap up.”

“Most?” Arthur caught, and Merlin’s face pinched before he dropped it, focusing on cutting Lancelot’s tunic away with a dagger.

“Two of them have rather severe wounds, and they’ve been left untreated for days,” Merlin explained in hushed, solemn tones, not meeting Arthur’s eyes. “I fear the limbs are infected, and I don’t have near the supplies to…” He didn’t say it, but he didn’t need to, and Arthur’s stomach clenched as he looked past his shoulder into the tent, noting one man whose leg was almost entirely wrapped in cloths, the bit of skin showing through a dark mottled color Arthur knew all too well from the battlefield.

“If we could get them back to Camelot?” he asked, and Merlin sighed, twisting his head back to the tent.

“Maybe,” he muttered, shaking his head gravely, “but it would have to be quick.”

“Are they well enough to travel?”

Merlin nodded, although it seemed somewhat conflicted. “For the moment, yes.”

“And Lancelot?” Arthur looked down at the man on the ground between them, watching as Merlin’s careful fingers danced over the torn tissue.

He leaned back with a sigh. “No, his condition is too delicate.”

“But you can save him?” Arthur stared at Merlin, watching as the cerulean gaze roved over Lancelot, and it occurred to him dimly somewhere at the back of his mind that he barely knew this man he had taken on as his servant. Overriding that, however, was the certainty that he could trust Merlin with this, that in Merlin’s hands was as safe a place as someone could be, and it frightened him a little how easily he, of all people, had fallen into such unquestioning faith.

Merlin met his eyes, suddenly older. “I’ll do everything I can,” he said, and his voice rang with steel, leaving no room for doubt. “Where’s that water!” he shouted again, kneeling up to project over Arthur’s head.

“Hot or cold?” someone—Bedivere maybe?—called from behind him.

“Both!” Merlin snapped back, and there was a burst of movement, one of the fires being partially obscured as a figure bent over it.

“Merlin, Merlin!” A young boy was running to them, waving a fistful of weeds, Sir Geraint following briskly in his wake. “I found them!” The boy stopped at Arthur’s shoulder, thrusting his bounty out for inspection.

Merlin smiled at the child, his hands surreptitiously moving the torn tunic to cover Lancelot’s wounds. “Thank you, Michael, you did very well. These are going to be a great help.”

The boy beamed as Merlin took the flowered stalks, and then ran back into the clearing, the smile on Merlin’s face slipping away with his departure.

He looked up to Geraint, who remained standing at Arthur’s side. “Take these. Some of the villagers should know what to do with them.”

Without so much as a hesitant glance to Arthur, Geraint nodded, taking the plant.

“Geraint,” Arthur said, stopping the man as he made to turn away, and he actually looked a little frightened for a moment, as if Arthur were going to chide him for his lack of decorum. “When you’re finished with that, take some of the other knights and see if you can salvage one of the wagons. We need to get the wounded back to Camelot as soon as possible.”

“Tonight, Sire?” the man asked.

“Do you think that possible?”

Geraint looked up, eyes scanning around the forest. “The moon is bright tonight, Sire. I believe we can manage.”

“Good,” Arthur replied. “The rest of the villagers should accompany you as well. I’ll remain behind with Leon and Bedivere until Lancelot is well enough to travel.”

“Sire-”

“Inform the others of this plan,” Arthur ordered, cutting off the man’s objection, and Geraint bowed, taking his leave.

Merlin returned to tending to Lancelot, fingers twisting at the man’s wrist, his forehead furrowed in concentration. “You don’t have to stay,” he said, so quiet, Arthur might have thought he’d imagined it if Merlin hadn’t continued. “I can look after him, just me and maybe one knight.”

“He saved my life,” Arthur said in explanation, and, as Merlin met his eyes, his small nod showed he understood.

A cauldron hit the ground between them, and Arthur turned to find Leon kneeling beside him, passing a water skin to Merlin’s waiting hands. “What can I do?” Leon urged, giving Arthur a quick nod of formality.

“Clean the wound as best you can,” Merlin replied, thrusting a cloth of what appeared to be a torn tunic into Leon’s waiting hand.

Leon nodded, and Merlin stood up, disappearing inside the tent with the bulging water skin.

Arthur listened to his rustling and clinking beyond the white partition, soft, comforting murmurs rolling out unintelligibly in Merlin’s low voice.

“He’s been like that since we got back to camp,” Leon murmured, diluting the blood in pink rivers over Lancelot’s sides. “Just took charge and put us all to work. He even yelled at Owain.”

“He _yelled_ at Owain?” Arthur questioned, placing a ready hand on Lancelot’s shoulder as the man groaned weakly, threatening to wake.

Leon nodded. “Owain didn’t want to give up his cloak.”

Arthur glowered, turning around to look into the clearing over his shoulder, searching for the man.

“He has something,” Leon said, pulling Arthur out of his glaring.

“Something?”

Leon shook his head, face turned down to Lancelot’s chest, which looked only slightly better now that the blood was being wiped away, gashes clearly exposed. “I can’t explain it,” Leon mused, “there’s just…something.” He turned his head to Arthur, a twitch of a smile revealing he did not mean it in a bad way, but Merlin appeared again before Arthur could ask any more questions.

“Alright,” he sighed, kneeling back down beside Lancelot, a bundle of cotton in his hands. “You’re going to have to hold him. Hard.” He unfurled the cotton, revealing a length of thread and a long, glittering needle, and Arthur knelt above Lancelot’s head, pressing his hands into his shoulders.

To his credit, Lancelot went through the ordeal bravely, staying remarkably still and never crying out. He hissed out his pain through gritted teeth, hands tight fists, and, despite Arthur’s snarling, Merlin refused to give him anything, insisting he was too weak to risk putting to sleep. Eventually, Lancelot passed out again, and Merlin finished his work in silence, thanking one of the village women with a weak smile when she brought him a stone bowl.

“What is that?” Arthur asked as he leaned closer, Leon and the cauldron gone between them, and he brushed against Merlin’s shoulder as he worked.

“Comfrey and honey,” Merlin replied, spreading the sticky mixture of torn green leaves over the sutures. “It will prevent infection and speed healing, but he’s lost a lot of blood.”

“But he’ll be alright.” Arthur tried to phrase it like a statement, but he could hear the fearful uncertainty permeating his voice.

Merlin stared down at Lancelot, his eyes focused on the man’s pale face. “I don’t know, Arthur,” he said after a moment, tone soft with sympathy. “We can move him into the tent once the others have gone, and I’ll stay with him through the night in case he develops a fever.”

“I’ll stay too,” he said, placing a hand on Lancelot’s still shoulder, and Merlin, after a beat, nodded.

It was surprisingly quick work packing up the camp and loading the supplies and villagers into the two wagons the knights managed to get rolling again. Before the moon had even fully risen, the caravan was heading out, Merlin situating the last of those unable to walk into the second wagon, imparting quick, muttered directions to a couple of women who would be riding with them.

Arthur watched him, watched the waves and twists of his hands as he gesticulated at the bandages and bowls of herbs, and the women nodded eagerly, their bodies rapt with attention. He leapt down from the wagon, landing in the flickering light of the torches held by the departing knights, and promptly startled back a bit as the young boy Arthur had seen earlier wrapped himself around his waist.

The boy seemed to say something to him, angling his head up toward Merlin’s face, and Merlin looked shocked for a moment in the firelight.

He quickly recovered into a tender smile that sent something spiraling in Arthur’s stomach, and patted a hand through the boy’s hair before gently pushing at his back, urging him on to join the leaving group. He stood there for some time, staring after the rolling wagons, and the torchlight slowly faded from his body.

It seemed to Arthur he was suddenly something otherworldly, standing in the middle of the clearing, moonlight catching blue-silver at the tips of his dark hair and glowing through his skin, making the shadows of blood and dirt on his exposed forearms even more apparent. He was a creature apart, as far from understanding as the impossible monster that had caused all this, and, as Merlin turned to him, eyes glittering sapphire under the sidelong light of the moon, Arthur nearly staggered.

“They’ll be alright, Arthur,” Merlin assured, a hand briefly pressing to his shoulder in an unprecedented gesture of familiarity, and, even though Merlin was completely misinterpreting his reaction, Arthur nodded, glad to follow the assumption.

They moved back to the tent, where Lancelot had been settled in the center of the structure, the end flaps let down to enclose them and conserve their heat. Merlin checked on the bandages and brushed a hand over Lancelot’s forehead before dipping a rag in a bowl of clean, cool water, wringing the excess before patting it to the man’s face.

“Where did you learn to do all this?” Arthur asked, a question that should have troubled him earlier, but Merlin seemed to do it so naturally, he had hardly realized it wasn’t part of the everyday.

Merlin’s mouth twitched, but his eyes were so far away, so sad, the expression could hardly be called a smile. “Necessity is the most effective teacher.”

“Who said that?” Arthur muttered, and Merlin genuinely chuckled, sitting back to lean against one of the trees propping up the structure.

“No one, I’m just saying it to you now. Although I’m flattered you think I sound like a Greek philosopher.” He rolled his head to Arthur along the curve of the trunk, a tired smile curling at his lips.

“I wouldn’t get used to it; I’m sure you’ll be back to sounding like an idiot any moment now,” Arthur muttered, smiling back.

“Prat.” Merlin’s smiled broadened, Arthur’s matching it, and then he twisted back to center, closing his eyes with a sigh.

Arthur watched him, dark eyelashes quivering over candlelit cheekbones. He cleared his throat. “I’m serious, though,” he continued, and Merlin opened the eye closest to him. “I want to know how you learned all of that.” He waved a hand vaguely in the direction of Lancelot’s bandages, nearly losing his balance where his elbows were propped up behind him.

Merlin didn’t notice, or was gracious enough not to comment. “I just…had to learn,” he said with a lazy shrug. “I lived with some refugees for a while before I came to Camelot. They weren’t exactly unaccustomed to injuries.” His expression darkened as he looked unfocused at the shifting cloth opposite them.

“Refugees?” Arthur pressed, but he kept his voice soft. “Refugees from what?”

Merlin blinked, his body stiffening, and Arthur imagined he could almost hear the metallic ring of a door being slammed and locked between them.

“It was a long time ago. In Essetir.” He stood, brushing his back. “I’m going to get more water,” he muttered, and then pushed out into the night, Arthur left watching the wax cloth fluttering limply back into place behind him.

\---

Lancelot’s breathing was rough and grating, and Merlin anxiously wiped the damp cloth across his forehead, but it didn’t seem to be helping anymore. He huffed out a breath, withdrawing the damp fabric, and shivered as a drop rolled down his arm.

The nights were growing colder as autumn crept up on them, and Merlin laid the rag into the bowl to tug his blanket tighter around his shoulders. He turned to look over his shoulder to where Arthur was sleeping a few feet behind him, wrapped tightly in his own dark blanket.

He was pulling restlessly at the folds of his bedroll, frown lines tightening and relaxing across his face with his vain quest for more warmth. He mumbled something, or perhaps it was just a whimper, but, either way, Merlin couldn’t take it.

Watching a moment longer to ensure Arthur was still completely asleep, Merlin let his magic loose, the room warming with his will.

Arthur’s fingers gradually slackened on the rough wool, his expression easing out, and Merlin couldn’t help but smile as he watched the rise and fall of his chest even out with slow, sleepy breaths.

As he stared, he felt something tug within him, like a hook latched behind his stomach and now being drawn in, and he gasped a shaky breath as the sensation spiked, his magic singing under his skin in harmony. He blinked, rattling his head, and the feeling disappeared like a candle snuffed out, quick enough to make Merlin question if it had ever been there at all. He was probably just overtired, he reasoned, but, turning back to Lancelot’s pale face, he knew there would be no rest for him any time soon.

In spite his best efforts, Lancelot’s condition was worsening. His body was failing him, too slow in replacing the blood he had lost, and there was nothing Merlin could do but make him comfortable, wiping at his fevered forehead and chest with cool cloths.

Well, almost nothing.

He bit his lip, looking back over his shoulder at where Arthur was now sleeping soundly, the melting candles turning his blond hair to strips of gold.

Warming the room was one thing, harmless, easily brushed off between the candles and their combined body heat. But Lancelot?

Merlin turned back to the dying man, brushing a wave of brown hair off his damp forehead, and Lancelot opened his mouth in a rasping heave of air in response.

His whole body shuddered, shivering even as he sweat, and Merlin’s jaw set, decided.

He moved to kneel beside Lancelot’s chest, rolling down the wool blanket to reveal the bandaged wounds. Gingerly placing one hand on the stained cotton, he rested the other over the man’s face, resting on his forehead and stretching over his eyes, and, with one last glance back at Arthur, he closed his eyes.

“Ic hæle þina þrowunga,” he whispered, picturing the wounds on Lancelot’s chest, the blood that had stained his tunic, and he imagined the process in reverse, the liquid returning to his veins and strengthening his struggling heart.

He felt it the moment the spell finished, his body uncoiling with a sigh, and he opened his eyes, moving his hands to Lancelot’s bandages. He tilted his head low, carefully lifting on the cotton, and the tension that had lingered in his limbs for hours rushed out with thick exhale.

Just as he breathed out, however, someone breathed in, a sharp gasp hissing through the tent.

Merlin’s head shot up, his hands recoiling as he wobbled backward, and then he froze, his body hollowing as he found Lancelot’s brown eyes fixed on his face.

Lancelot held his gaze for a moment, blinking blearily, his mouth parted, and then he looked down to his own chest. He lifted a quivering hand to his bandages, resting at first, and then pressing lightly, and Merlin didn’t dare breathe lest he break the trance and attract those hands to his throat. Endless moments ticked by, but Lancelot finally looked back at him, wincing with the pain as he made an attempt to sit up.

“You-You have-” he stammered weakly, but Merlin broke in.

“No,” he muttered, violently rattling his head.

Lancelot grimaced, closing his eyes as he let his neck relax back onto the bedroll behind his head. “I saw you,” he whispered, eyes heavy-lidded, but still alert. “Ic hæle…something.”

Merlin did not reply, his fingers tightening in the wool blanket that had pooled around his back.

“You saved my life,” Lancelot breathed, the words almost drifting away in the air.

Merlin blinked, his grip relaxing as his lips popped open. He scrutinized Lancelot’s gaze, searching for any hint of malice, of fear, but he found only warm surprise. He frowned. This was not the reaction he would have expected. As he considered all of _those_ wonderful possibilities, he subconsciously turned, eyes flicking over his shoulder to Arthur’s still-sleeping form.

Lancelot shifted on his bedroll, and Merlin snapped back to him, half expecting to find a knife to his throat. Lancelot was only turning his head, however, his eyes shifting back from where they had followed his gaze to Arthur. “I won’t reveal you,” he said simply, his voice rapidly losing its drowsiness.

Merlin said nothing, but something in his expression must have betrayed his skepticism, because Lancelot sat up in spite of his visible pain.

“Merlin,” he said, expression firm, “I give you my word of honor, I will not betray you. To Arthur or anyone else.”

If it were any other human being, Merlin would have scoffed at the promise, but Lancelot’s voice was so sure, his gaze so unflinching, his oath must have formed itself in the stars upon him making it, heavy as it was with sincerity and strength. “Thank you,” Merlin said with a nod, shocked himself at his belief.

Lancelot appeared to understand the significance of the trust, and nodded solemnly back.

There was a dragging inhale from behind him, followed by a breathy groan.

“Merlin?” Arthur murmured sleepily, face scrunching into a frown before his eyelids began to twitch with waking, and Merlin heroically pushed down the glowing feeling in his chest that was threatening to spread into a grin. “Who’re you-” He sat up, wrinkled expression snapping open in surprise. “Lancelot!” He batted at the blankets, tangling himself worse before getting free, and Merlin dropped his head to smile at the ground as he shifted out of the way. “You’re awake!”

Lancelot nodded, a tired smile stretching his lips. “Indeed, and feeling much better, Sire. Thanks to Merlin.” He inclined his head toward Merlin, who flushed and dropped his head, watching Lancelot’s smile out of the tops of his eyes. “I owe him my life.”

“And I owe you mine,” Arthur said with a solemn dip of his head. “When we return to Camelot, I will ensure you are justly rewarded.”

“No reward is necessary, Sire,” Lancelot replied, shaking his head. “I was only doing my duty.”

“No, you weren’t,” Arthur answered, smiling softly when Lancelot looked up in alarm. “You have no duty to me, Lancelot, no more than any other citizen of Camelot, and I doubt many of them would do what you did.”

Lancelot dropped his head, evidently unwilling to acknowledge what the general populace did or did not feel toward the royal family.

“I certainly wouldn’t,” Merlin muttered, and Lancelot blanched, his expression stretching with horror as he looked between them.

Arthur elbowed him hard in the arm, and Merlin swayed a bit where he was sitting. “You already did,” he said with a broad smile.

“So when do I get my reward?” Merlin asked, and Arthur nearly pushed him over that time.

“Your reward, _Mer_ lin,” Arthur replied, all smug superiority as he turned his head, “is the honor of being my manservant.”

Merlin gave his smirk a withering look, and then turned to Lancelot. “Here’s hoping you do better than me,” he whispered conspiratorially, and Lancelot’s lips quivered as he ducked his head. Merlin dodged as Arthur tried to swat his head, standing up and grabbing the empty water skin from beside the bedrolls. “I’ll get you some water,” he said, smiling down at Lancelot, who nodded gratefully.

“Get it for everyone, Merlin, I’ll need to see the knights in here right away,” Arthur ordered up over his shoulder, and Merlin nodded in acquiesce, giving Lancelot a raised-eyebrow, ‘See what I have to deal with’ look when Arthur turned his head.

Lancelot pursed his lips against a smile, and Merlin made it his solemn mission to make that man laugh at Arthur’s expense if it was the last thing he did. Honestly, Arthur didn’t need _everyone_ treating him like the second coming.

He bent out of the tent, scanning the fire-cast shadows for silhouettes as he fetched his and Arthur’s water skins from where he’d left their packs. The knights would presumably have their own on them wherever they were patrolling, and Merlin had almost resigned himself to a staggering search through the dark, debris-littered forest when Leon drifted into view along the edge of the orange circle of light.

“Sir Leon!” Merlin called, and the man started. “The prince is asking for you,” he said as he approached, and Leon seemed to instinctively straighten. “You and Sir Bedivere. Lancelot is awake”—Leon’s expression softened with relief—“and I think Ar- my lord wants to find out what he knows about the creature.”

Leon nodded, and then turned his head, issuing a complex, trilling whistle Merlin took to be some sort of signal, because, a few moments later, Sir Bedivere appeared from the opposite side of the clearing. “We’ll head right in,” he said as Sir Bedivere approached, looking concerned.

“I need your water skins,” Merlin interjected, holding up the two already in his hands. “I’m to refill them and bring them to the tent.”

Bedivere only nodded curtly, unfastening his skin and passing it to Merlin before heading in the direction of the tent, but Leon lingered, slowly removing the pouch.

“You know, Merlin,” he said as he passed it over, “if it doesn’t bother Arthur, it doesn’t bother me.”

Merlin looked at him, head tilting slightly, and then dropped his eyes as he smiled. He nodded to show he understood, prompting Leon to smile as well.

“And, as for me,” the man continued as he started to walk away, “you can drop the title as well. But I wouldn’t presume as much for anyone else.”

Merlin nodded again, and then they both turned their backs, heading in opposite directions as Merlin went toward the nearby stream. It wasn’t flowing particularly strong, so it took a while to fill up the skins without moving the opening so low it would catch silt, and, by the time he made it back to the tent, the conversation was deep in progress. Of course, he would walk in at the worst, possible moment, fumbling to keep ahold of the damp skins as his body struggled with an intrinsic, panic response.

“He found it in one of the books. Said it was called a griffin, and that it was a creature of magic,” Lancelot said, and Merlin could see the strain in his eyes to not look in his direction. “That’s why our weapons were useless; only magic can harm the beast.”

Merlin finally managed to make his body move, stepping forward and distributing the skins, meeting no one’s eyes.

“Are you certain?” Arthur asked, brow furrowed. “There is no other way?”

Lancelot dropped his gaze with a baleful shake of his head. “I’m afraid not, Sire. We tried everything. Fire seems to deter it, but it does not burn, and all our steel only shatters on its flank, as you saw.”

For some reason, Arthur glanced up at Merlin then, so quickly, he almost missed it, and he barely had time to begin to look confused before the blue eyes were turning away.

“We will have to find a way,” Arthur said, and Merlin forgot it was impossible for a moment, Arthur sounded so sure.

Lancelot coughed loudly, wincing and clutching at his chest with the motion, and Merlin noticed a sheen of sweat on his paling forehead.

Arthur took the moment Lancelot was composing himself, breathing deeply with a strained expression, to turn around and look at Merlin, a question in his lifting eyebrow, and Merlin shook his head. “We’ll let you get some rest,” he said, clapping Lancelot on the shoulder, and the brunette man smiled, looking half-asleep already.

“Thank you, Sire,” he replied, voice soft and strained as he nodded.

“I’ll go fetch some herbs to make a tea to help with the pain,” Merlin said, smiling down from where he stood hovering at the fringe of the group. “It should help you sleep easier.”

Lancelot smiled up at him, softer than the others. “Thank you, Merlin,” he answered, and, though it seemed to go unnoticed by the others, Merlin felt the added weight of the reply settle heavy on his shoulders.

“I’ll go with you,” Arthur said, rising from the ground, and Merlin looked around, waiting for someone else to stand before he noticed Arthur’s eyes were on him.

“Me?” Merlin asked, cringing internally as Arthur huffed a laugh.

“Of course you, you idiot,” he chuckled. “Can’t let you go wandering around the woods by yourself in the dark. You’ll get yourself eaten, and then who will wash out the dishes?” He smirked, tilting his head with a cavalier flick of his eyebrows.

Merlin flashed back a snide smile. “How selfless of you, Sire,” he quipped, inclining his head in a pantomime of respect.

Leon coughed around a snicker, covering his mouth with a fist as he dropped his head, while Sir Bedivere merely frowned in confused surprise as he looked between them.

Arthur rolled his eyes. “Come on,” he mumbled, clipping Merlin with his shoulder as he brushed past and out the tent.

Merlin chuckled, pointedly _not_ rubbing his arm as he followed.

They scavenged around the forest for a time, Merlin glaring while Arthur smirked, purposefully holding the torch so as to shadow wherever Merlin was looking, and pointing out every type of foliage with an: “Is that it?” Merlin thought he deserved a knighthood for only tripping him twice.

“Merlin?”

“FOR THE LAST TIME, VALERIAN IS NOT THE PRETTY PURPLE FLOWER!”

Arthur tilted his head, an arrogant smile on half his lips. “I don’t believe I said ‘pretty’, Merlin.”

Merlin snarled, glowering up at His Royal Pratness before turning back to his search.

“I did have an actual question, though.”

Merlin closed his eyes, hanging his head and sighing down at the ground. “Yes, my lord?”

Arthur chuckled, his footsteps heavy and clinking as he walked around to Merlin’s side. “Where did you get this sword?”

Merlin stiffened, hoping it went unnoticed. “I, er…found it, Sire. On the ground. Must’ve fallen out when the wagons were toppled.”

Arthur hummed, a ringing sound cutting through the dark, and Merlin lifted his head to find the sword being pulled from its sheath, glittering golden in the torchlight. “It’s a fine blade. Almost identical to the one the beast destroyed.”

Merlin winced, internally reprimanding himself for forming a sword that looked so much like Arthur’s old one, but it had been the first thing to come to mind. At least this one didn’t include the ostentatious ruby embedded in the hilt. Bloody Pendragons and their red.

“Perhaps I should check with the villagers when we return, see if one of them is missing it,” Arthur continued, turning the blade over in his hand.

Merlin snapped a foxglove stem in half. “I’m sure they would rather you have it, my lord,” he muttered, trying not to sound too frantic or polite, but he probably failed on both counts.

“Still,” Arthur murmured, and Merlin fought not to jump as the sword was concealed again with a shrill grate.

He made a mental note to create a story with Lancelot to explain the sword’s appearance and lack of owner before Arthur could ask _him_ any questions.

“It was good, though.”

Merlin looked up, head tilting as Arthur avoided his gaze, favoring watching the progress of his boot kicking at the undergrowth.

“What you did. Throwing me the sword,” Arthur clarified with a wave of his hand, eyes drifting across Merlin’s for a moment.

Merlin ducked his head, granting himself a moment to press out his smile. “You’re welcome, Sire,” he said as neutrally as possible.

“I didn’t say thank you,” Arthur snapped.

Merlin cocked his head with a pout of coy confusion. “Didn’t you?”

Arthur glared. “No, _Mer_ lin,” he sneered, “I was merely acknowledging that you didn’t completely screw something up for once.”

Merlin didn’t rise to the taunt, his smirk only growing. “So, an acknowledgement?”

“Yes,” Arthur answered, feet shifting in the dirt as his back straightened, a stiff, wary expression squaring his jaw.

Merlin lifted an eyebrow. “Is an acknowledgement like a royal thank you?”

“No.”

“Because it sounds an _awful_ lot like-”

“Just pick your herbs,” Arthur growled, head rattling irritably as he glared at the surrounding trees.

Merlin’s lips twitched. “Yes, Sire.”

Arthur was more or less quiet as they finished their task, and Merlin didn’t have cause to trip him again, but he was considering smothering him with his bedroll as Arthur’s sleep-induced mumbling filled the tent.

He had waited for everyone to go to sleep, lying still and feigning unconsciousness as the knights argued over watches, but it was Bedivere’s turn now, and Merlin knew he would only move to a tree trunk and go back to sleep. Really, it was a wonder Arthur hadn’t been killed already, surrounded by this lot. Then it wouldn’t be Merlin’s problem, one way or the other.

Merlin lifted his head off the makeshift pillow of his folded bedroll, listening for any movement. Only sleepy breaths greeted him, and he dared stir, slowly curling his body up to sitting.

Arthur was lying to his right, closest to the entrance, a spot he had stubbornly claimed in spite of Leon’s perfectly reasonable assessment that he would be safer further inside.

Merlin rolled his eyes, shaking his head at the idiocy of bravery, and then glanced around the tent, finding Leon on the opposite side of Lancelot, positioned near the back flap. All three of them were still apart from the shifting of their lungs, and Merlin slowly pushed back his blanket and rose to standing. He cast a quick silencing spell on his footsteps, but walked on tiptoes anyway, picking around Arthur’s splayed limbs as he moved toward the entrance.

Arthur shifted in his sleep, narrowly avoiding Merlin’s ankle with his calf, and Merlin froze, holding his breath. But Arthur only murmured—“I don’t wanna-” something or other—and lolled his head side to side before stilling again.

Merlin’s lips formed a tight circle as he pushed out the captive air, his eyes closing briefly in relief before he made quick work of the remainder of the distance, silently pulling away the tent flap and exiting into the darkness. Reaching out with his magic, he sensed Bedivere across the clearing, propped up against a tree and drooling on his shoulder. Merlin huffed a laugh and turned the opposite direction, walking until he was certain the trees would conceal him before forming his own light. The blue orb twinkled in front of him, and he touched a fingertip to the warm, flickering surface.

“Find it,” he whispered, and the orb flashed gold a moment before beginning to move through the trees. He stretched his arm down his side, opening his palm, and the silver hilt of a sword formed in his hand, the blade reaching toward the ground as he conjured it. He held the weapon at the ready, prepared to meet the griffin around every rock and tree, but the light only continued to bob ahead of him, leading the way further and further into the woods.

It wasn’t his best plan, he would admit that much, but he hadn’t been able to think of an alternative. The griffin could only be defeated with magic, and he couldn’t do magic surrounded by Arthur and the knights, so this would just have to do: him wandering out into the dark to defeat the beast alone. No, definitely not his best plan.

He sighed with self-deprecation, and then stalled abruptly, a sound behind him drawing his attention. He called the light to pause with a thought, quietly moving to crouch behind a nearby bush, and only when he was still could he clearly distinguish the footsteps creeping up to his position.

They were soft, clearly not armored, and Merlin ducked low behind the leaves as he waited for the owner to appear. A silhouette appeared, glancing side to side in the weak light, and Merlin lunged from his cover sword-first.

A swift kick to the shin sent the man—at least his grunt of surprise sounded masculine—toppling backward, but he drew his sword as he fell, swinging it out when Merlin moved in front of him. He caught the blade with his own, wincing at the loud clash of metal, and then parried the force away. With a twist of his wrist, he spun his weapon in his grip, coming down again on the stranger’s sword, but this time close to the hilt. The impact caused the man’s grip to falter, the metal flying from his hand and disappearing into the undergrowth, and Merlin followed the recoil, turning his shoulder to bring the polished point of his sword to the man’s throat.

The stranger let out a small gasp, stretching his neck away from the threat, and his face caught in the moonlight that reached around Merlin.

“Lancelot?” Merlin spluttered, eyebrows rocketing up as he blinked.

“Hey, Merlin,” Lancelot chuckled nervously, his throat bobbing with a swallow.

“What are you doing?” Merlin asked, eyes scanning the surrounding trees in case anyone else decided to pop out of nowhere.

“I saw you sneaking out of the tent,” Lancelot answered briskly. “Thought you might need some help. Although”—he nodded down at the steel still hovering over his artery—“I’m reconsidering that assumption now.”

“Oh,” Merlin muttered, rattling his head as he lowered the sword and stepped away. “Right. Sorry.” He swapped the weapon in his hands, reaching down toward Lancelot.

He grasped Merlin’s forearm and pushed up from the ground as Merlin pulled. “Don’t apologize,” he insisted, waving his hand in dismissal. He smiled, brushing at the backs of his trousers. “It’s good. You should be able to handle yourself with a blade as well as- Well…”

Merlin smiled, releasing Lancelot’s arm to replace his sword in his dominant hand. “Magic, Lancelot,” he said, and the man started, eyes wide. “You can say it. The _word_ won’t get you killed.”

Lancelot seemed to blush in the dim light, eyes cast down as he smiled sheepishly. A moment later, he was severe again. “So, what are you doing out here, anyway?”

“Looking for the griffin,” Merlin replied, remembering himself at Lancelot’s question, and he lifted the light higher over them, enhancing its brightness.

To his credit, Lancelot was only mildly startled by the flash in Merlin’s eyes. “Alone?” he asked, eyebrows lifting. “You were going to take on a griffin _alone_?”

“Didn’t have much choice, did I?” Merlin answered sharply, and huffed out a calming breath before continuing. “The griffin can only be killed by magic, you said that yourself,” he explained, and Lancelot frowned, but nodded. “Well, I can’t exactly whip out a spell in front of the crown prince of Camelot”—he waved his hands through the air in illustration as they began to walk—“so it seemed like the only thing _to_ do was to take care of it myself.” He shrugged, bracing on a tree as he stepped carefully around a patch of thorns, and, when he looked back, Lancelot was staring at him, face wrinkled and perplexed. “What?”

Lancelot shook his head. “Nothing, it’s just… Well, you’re not what I expected.”

“Of a servant?” Merlin joked.

“Of a sorcerer,” Lancelot revised.

Merlin sobered instantly. “Well, you never know, I might turn on you yet. Destroy all your crops or take over your mind and force you to kill your friends and-”

“No, I- I didn’t mean it like that.”

Merlin didn’t reply, and, after a stretch broken only by the crunching of leaves and cracking of twigs, Lancelot sighed.

“Okay, maybe I did. A little. But mostly it’s just that you seem so…ordinary.”

“Gee, thanks,” Merlin snorted, but he wasn’t angry now, not when Lancelot sounded so contrite.

“I just mean you have a regular life. With a regular job and friends and all that. You’re not…living in a tree and dancing naked under the full moon.”

“How do you know?” Merlin twisted his head around, lifting his eyebrows. “I could enjoy a good, starkers romp in the moonlight.”

Lancelot laughed, and, just like that, whatever tension had lingered between them dissolved. “Somehow, I doubt that.”

“Can’t quite picture it?”

“If it’s all the same to you, I won’t try.”

Merlin shrugged. “Fair enough,” he chirped, and Lancelot chuckled.

“So, where are we going, exactly?” the man asked as they walked further into the trees.

“To find the griffin,” Merlin answered, holding back a branch and allowing Lancelot to pass in front of him. “I’m tracking it,” he clarified with a wave toward the blue orb ahead.

“Oh,” Lancelot said with the air of someone who couldn’t even begin to understand, but also didn’t know what questions to ask. “And when we find it?”

“I kill it.”

“How?”

“I have a few ideas.”

“You mean you don’t _know_!?”

“Shhh!” Merlin snapped out a hand, grabbing at Lancelot’s shoulder.

Lancelot froze under his fingers, his body not even moving with breath, and Merlin took a half step forward to stand level with him.

He twisted his neck left and right, scanning the surrounding trees, but couldn’t see anything. He wasn’t even sure he had _heard_ anything, but he knew somehow, felt the presence vibrating through his skin, and he let his magic spark at the surface, ready to defend.

Lancelot shivered, though Merlin doubted it was from the cold, and he opened his mouth to ask if he could feel it too when the silence cracked with a shriek.

The trees split in front of them, revealing the dark body of the beast, and it was all Merlin could do to focus on keeping the orb illuminated overhead as they dove to the side, away from the glinting claws that lunged for their chests.

Lancelot scrambled up from the ground, tugging at Merlin’s arm, and they turned toward the creature, backing away to gain whatever meager cover they could from the nearby trees as they extended their weapons. “What now?” Lancelot shouted as the griffin spun in the dirt, scratching at the ground in preparation for a charge.

“Don’t die!” Merlin answered, knees loose and readied to spring, heart pounding in his throat. There was just enough time to hear the beginning of Lancelot’s frantic chuckle before the griffin pounded toward them with a cry. Merlin leapt left, landing in a neat somersault before coming up with a twist, his boots scraping through the dirt to face the creature.

Lancelot appeared to have done something similar in the opposite direction, but the creature had ignored him, and was now coming directly at Merlin.

There was no time to even swing his sword, in spite of how ineffective it would currently be, and Merlin took a step back, flinging his left hand out in front of him and forcing his magic to take shape. It eagerly sprang from him, more controlled than he could ever remember, and the griffin’s claws glanced off the conjured shield. Merlin staggered back under the onslaught, cracks of golden light appearing over the surface of the magical barrier, and his heart stuttered with panic as he tightened his grip on the sword.

“Hey! HEY!”

What the-?

Merlin and the griffin both turned, Merlin craning his neck around the black bulk of the beast, and he might have sighed with irritation if the situation hadn’t been so dire.

Lancelot was standing far too close behind the griffin, waving his sword side to side through the air, the blade glinting in the faint moonlight. “Over here!” he shouted again, jumping slightly.

The griffin turned away from Merlin, who couldn’t decide if he was relieved or not, and started toward Lancelot, stalking rather than lunging this time. They turned a half-circle around one another, Lancelot’s eyes wide but focused as he twirled his useless sword in his hand, ready to attack.

Merlin’s breathing hastened as he thought, every spell he knew racing through his head and getting dismissed just as quickly. His hand shook on the cold hilt of his sword, and he strengthened his grip to still the tremor. He gasped, looking down at his clenched hand, an idea occurring to him, and he shot forward just as the griffin slashed at Lancelot.

The man dove to the side, sparing his head from being severed from his body, but his sword was not so fortunate, metallic kindling littering the forest floor as one of the monster’s claws connected. Lancelot twisted in the leaves, mouth popping open with a sharp gasp as the griffin began its second approach, closing in with a bellow on the grounded man. He lifted his arm and turned his head in a last effort to ward off the blow of the creature’s descending limb, but Merlin got there first, sword and eyes glowing as he opened a gash in the griffin’s extending talons.

The beast shrieked in pain, leg bent toward its chest as it limped back from the duo. Merlin slashed at the air, and the griffin retreated even further, weakly swiping out at him with its damaged claw. Lunging forward, Merlin jabbed at the feathered neck, but the monster dodged the blow, rearing back to strike.

With no time to even slow time down, Merlin leapt to the side, the griffin’s glittering beak only grazing his arm instead of removing it. He spun the sword in his grip, clenching the hilt with both hands, and let the momentum of his dive carry him forward, beneath the neck of the beast. The blue flames surrounding the blade vanished within the dark breast, and there was a cry that Merlin thought for a moment came from him, it was so piercing, the shrill note of agony vibrating to his bones. With a wrench and growl of effort, he pulled the sword free, stumbling back out of the way as the griffin crumpled to the ground in front of him, lifeless.

The silence ached in his ears, broken only by the heavy hiss and huff of his breathing, and he slowly came back to himself in the stillness. His movements seemed stunted, as if he were trapped in one of his own spells, time moving sluggishly around him, and didn’t immediately understand as he looked down that that was his own arm covered in blood. His tunic was torn across the exterior of his right bicep, dark slowly staining down the sleeve, and he watched the progress for a moment, fascinated.

“Merlin? Merlin!” Lancelot appeared in front of him, hair matted to his forehead from exertion, brown eyes roving over him with frantic concern. “You’re bleeding,” he panted, grabbing at Merlin’s wrist and turning his arm to better access the wound, and only then did Merlin realize he was still holding the stained sword.

That thought brought his mind back with a snap, and he wobbled slightly as reality crashed into him. He could hear voices, loud and beckoning, and he stretched his senses out to find the knights and Arthur crashing through the underbrush toward them.

Oh, god, _Arthur_!

“Here,” Merlin rasped, and then swallowed, refreshing his throat. “Here,” he repeated, holding his sword out to Lancelot, “take this.”

“What?” Lancelot questioned, but took the hilt from Merlin’s hand. “Why? What are you-“

“You woke up, heard a sound in the forest,” Merlin rushed, spelling the griffin’s blood off his tunic where it had spattered back from the wound, but he left his bloodied arm to add to the credibility of the story he was still concocting. “You followed it, found me here—unconscious and about to be killed—and attacked the griffin before it could finish the job.”

“What? Merlin, no!” Lancelot stepped in front of him, trying to push the sword back into his hand. “You killed the griffin, not me. I can’t take credit for something _you_ did.”

“Lancelot, look at me!” Merlin snapped, shaking his hands over his chest. “No one will believe _I_ killed it! I’m not even supposed to know how to _use_ one of those.” He waved a hand toward the sword in Lancelot’s grip.

“But you do,” Lancelot replied, as if it were a simple matter he’d just settled. “And you didn’t use magic for it either; I know natural talent when I see it.”

“But I had to use magic on the _sword_!” Merlin insisted, glancing frantically at the trees he knew the knights were only seconds from bursting through. “Everyone heard you say the griffin could only be killed by magic, but if one of us was going to manage without and kill it with just brute force-” He finished the thought with an illustrative jab toward Lancelot’s chest.

Lancelot hissed irritably, face contorted with confliction as he shook his head at the ground. “But it isn’t _right_! You saved my life twice in one day; I won’t repay you by taking your glory.”

“Glory? _Glory_!? Lancelot, they’ll throw me in cold irons and burn me in the courtyard!”

Lancelot winced, and Merlin knew he’d finally gotten through.

“You want to repay me for saving your life?” he asked, and Lancelot looked up, expression strained. “Save mine.”

Lancelot blinked, seeming thrown by the earnest in Merlin’s tone, and opened his mouth to reply just as the branches behind him exploded.

“Merlin!?” Arthur was shouting through ragged breaths, a broken stretch of branch caught in his hair, leaves dark against the moonlight reflected in the disheveled strands. His head turned, taking in his surroundings with the quick, precise movements of a trained warrior, and he slowed slightly over the body of the griffin before landing on their two, frozen figures. “Merlin!” he panted, lowering his sword, and Merlin found some of the tension in his own body uncoiling at Arthur’s visible relief. “Lancelot!” he added, drawing closer, but his open expression dimmed somewhat as his eyes alighted on the sword in Lancelot’s hand. “You killed it,” he said, breathless, gaping at the weapon a moment before looked up at the man. “But- How? I-I thought- You said-”

The longest second in all of recorded time passed over them, and then Lancelot spoke, and Merlin could breathe.

“My sword was forged far from here, Sire,” he said, and Merlin blinked, trying not to look too surprised.

He had forgotten he had conjured the sword with magic, and was suddenly immensely grateful he hadn’t made it anything elaborate. Nevertheless, the metal could be anything—or not even metal at all, in spite of looking like it—but he had modeled the style after the more familiar swords of Essetir, so Lancelot’s explanation would seem credible enough.

“Perhaps it is something in the steel,” he added, and turned the sword toward Arthur for inspection as the prince reached them, just as Leon and Bedivere bounded into view.

“Lancelot! Merlin!” Leon gasped, and, however bedraggled Arthur looked, the two knights looked worse, and Merlin refused to consider what that implied about Arthur’s fitness level.

It wasn’t an easy feat, considering how Arthur had come bounding in here, sweaty and battle-ready, calling Merlin’s name like he cared. The bastard.

He shook his head, refocusing on Leon’s voice as the knights approached.

“-heard the griffin and feared the worst. And then, when the noises stopped…” He trailed away, looking between the two, bloodied survivors, and then turned, starting slightly when he saw the griffin, his hand twitching toward his sword. “It’s- You-” He looked to the sword that was now in Arthur’s hands, being turned over in tanned, calloused palms. “But…how?”

“It may have something to do with the steel,” Arthur said, brow furrowed as he continued to stare down at the blade. “Lancelot’s sword wasn’t forged in Camelot. Perhaps there is something in the metal that the beast was vulnerable too.”

Merlin held his breath, trying to keep his body from visibly stiffening, but, though Leon looked perplexed, he did not look suspicious.

“We will have to examine it upon our return,” Leon advised, leaning around Arthur’s shoulder. “Hopefully it is something we can replicate.”

“Indeed,” Arthur said with an official nod, gripping Merlin’s (Lancelot’s) sword and twisting it through the air with a whistle before returning the hilt to Lancelot’s hand. “If there are any more of those things”—he nodded toward the griffin’s corpse—“our people should be prepared.”

Leon and Bedivere nodded, spines straightening, and even Lancelot’s jaw squared as he sheathed the sword in a nimble swipe.

Merlin looked between them, wondering if there was some magical quality contained in Arthur’s orders that he was simply immune too.

“Let’s get back to camp,” Arthur said, hand on the hilt of his sword, and somehow that small gesture made him look every bit a prince. “It will be dawn soon. We’ll make for Camelot as soon as light allows.”

The group sans Merlin nodded again, and moved as one back in the direction the knights had come from. Merlin made to follow Lancelot, shifting around Arthur, but the blond stepped to block his path with a shoulder.

“What were you doing out here?” he hissed, eyes darting over his shoulder as if the conversation were about state secrets.

Merlin raised an eyebrow. “Why are you so sure it was me?” he replied, the whispering apparently contagious. “Lancelot could’ve wandered off.”

Arthur rolled his eyes with a sigh that Merlin wasn’t quite sure he deserved. “He’s _capable_ , yes, but, somehow, it seems more likely that you’re the one with the death wish.”

Merlin almost laughed, although Arthur had slightly miscalculated what the imminent threat to Merlin’s continued breathing _was_. “I couldn’t sleep,” he answered with a shrug. “Thought I’d collect a few herbs to help Lancelot build up his strength for the journey. I heard a noise, and then the griffin was there, chasing me.” He tried to look embarrassed. “I didn’t mean to get so far from camp,” he murmured, looking sidelong across the ground. His eyes snapped back up at Arthur’s heavy sigh.

“Idiot,” Arthur muttered, shaking his head, but the slight smile Merlin could see at the corner of his mouth gave lie to the scorn in his tone. “You’re lucky Lancelot came after you. If it had been me, I would’ve just let the griffin take off with you. Might’ve even begged.”

“On your knees, Sire?” Merlin quipped, because, apparently, he really _did_ have a death wish, or maybe it was just the waning thrill of battle making him foolish enough to forget who he was talking to and flirt.

The look of absolute incredulity Arthur gave him might be worth it, even if he were about to lose his head. Just as quickly, however, Arthur’s expression change into something sly and predatory, and Merlin’s blood wasn’t quite so cold anymore. “No, Merlin,” he hummed, and Merlin _did not_ shudder. “I’m afraid it would take more than a griffin to get me on my knees.”

It would be hell picking back through the woods to the campsite in the dim moonlight, but Merlin wouldn’t complain, not while the darkness was gracious enough to hide his no-doubt-flaming face. He was sure he was moments away from coming up with a clever retort, but Arthur took the opportunity from him, smirking with a flick of his eyebrows as he moved to walk away.

He playfully bumped Merlin’s arm with an elbow as he turned, and Merlin winced, jolting away with a jagged hiss of air. Arthur whirled back around, posture immediately defensive. He opened his mouth, a glottal sound starting in his throat, but Merlin’s hand instinctively drawing up to the wound on his arm stalled the word. “You’re hurt,” Arthur said, softer than he had any right to, but there was nothing tender about the hand that pulled Merlin’s fingers away.

“It’s nothing,” he said, but couldn’t help but flinch as Arthur’s fingers probed the split skin. “Just a graze. It tried to bite me and-”

“It tried to _bite you_!?”

“Yes, but it didn’t,” Merlin offered, his tone growing higher in hopeful appeal.

Arthur snorted, head bent down close to the gash. “Not sure if you’ve noticed, Merlin, but you are, in fact, bleeding.”

“It’s shallow,” Merlin dismissed, shrugging as best he could with one of his arms in a vice. “I’ll put a poultice on it when we get back to- What are you doing?”

Arthur had pulled his mail shirt up on his torso, exposing the hem of his red tunic, which he was now ripping across the bottom. “What does it look like?” he grumbled, flicking a glance up at Merlin through his lashes.

“Making more work for me?” Merlin guessed, and Arthur chuckled.

“So ungrateful.” Arthur shook his head in a pantomime of chiding, and then prodded at Merlin’s arm until he lifted it, holding it aloft. For all the dirt and callouses on Arthur’s hands, his fingers were gentle as they wrapped the scrap of fabric around Merlin’s wound, holding one end fast while he deftly spun the other in quick circles.

Merlin was sure that tunic was rife with things he _really_ didn’t want near an open wound, but he could simply use a healing spell on the gash later, and removing it would only serve to hurt Arthur’s feelings. The feeling in his own chest, a warm sort of swirling he’d previously only ever associated with magic, had nothing to do with his reluctance. Nothing at all.

“There,” Arthur said, smiling with self-satisfaction as he tested the tie over the binding. His hands lingered on Merlin’s arm, guiding Merlin to twist it side to side with a gentle pressure of his fingers. “I think you’ll live.”

“Oh, you’re a physician now too, are you?” Merlin muttered, lifting his eyebrows, because banter was easier than untangling the knot in his stomach.

Arthur beamed, and Merlin’s internal organs rearranged themselves. “Just one of my many talents,” he replied.

“Apart from being a prat?”

Arthur laughed. “That too,” he said with a small bob of his head, and then he slapped Merlin on the back, the opposite side as his injury.

In spite of his best efforts, Merlin wobbled a bit under the hit, his legs growing less and less certain beneath him as the exertion from earlier began to make itself felt.

“Merlin?” Arthur questioned, moving his hand from Merlin’s back to his shoulder and steadying him. “Are you alright?”

“Yeah, yeah,” Merlin replied, but his voice was breathy and sounded distant in his ears.

Arthur bent down to catch his eye, looking up into his face with a small smirk. “You’re not gonna faint on me, are ya?”

“No,” Merlin sneered, but Arthur only smiled broader. “I think I’m just tired.”

Arthur looked almost worried for a moment, but the small frown quickly vanished. With an exasperated sigh, he moved to Merlin’s left side, grabbing his forearm and slinging it across his shoulder.

“What are you doing?” Merlin protested even as he leaned into Arthur’s grasp.

“Ya know, you really should stop questioning me, Merlin,” Arthur admonished, but he still wrapped his right arm around Merlin’s waist. “I am royalty, after all.”

“Royalty?” Merlin snorted, head lolling against Arthur’s shoulder as they began to walk. “More like a royal pain in the-”

“Merlin,” Arthur warned, grip tightening slightly where he held Merlin’s wrist.

Merlin smiled, dropping his face to the ground. “Sorry, Sire,” he murmured, voice wobbling as his body jostled against the cool, mail-cloaked one.

Now it was Arthur’s turn to snort, and Merlin grinned, watching the progress of their feet and wondering if he was imagining Arthur’s thumb stroking circles over his pulse.

\---

The ride back to Camelot was uneventful, and yet still stressful, Arthur spending an inordinate amount of it turned around to make sure Merlin hadn’t fallen off his horse. His manservant had woken up that morning looking as though he hadn’t slept at all, and his body lolled dangerously with every sway of the steed. Arthur also noticed Merlin hadn’t removed the strip of Arthur’s tunic from his arm, but he was hesitant to point it out, lest Merlin remove it at the reminder.

There was something pleasant about that small stitch of Pendragon red against Merlin’s usual blue tunic, and a secret smile twitched at Arthur’s mouth every time his eyes found it, a token of the possessiveness he already firmly felt. Of course, Merlin was rather helpless on his own, a magnet for trouble he then dove headlong into, so it was only natural that Arthur would want to have him near at all times, that he would loathe the distance of two people riding between them almost as much as he loathed not knowing how to insist Merlin move up.

It had been a stressful ride back, indeed, but there had been no relief, Uther summoning Arthur the moment he had arrived. Arthur tried to downplay the griffin attack as much as possible, not wanting to inspire one of his father’s famous overreactions, but it had happened anyway as soon as Arthur had suggested inducting Lancelot as a knight.

“You know the code, Arthur,” Uther said, scowling down at him from where he stood on the raised platform of the throne room.

“Lancelot saved my life. Twice!” Arthur insisted, hands flying out to his sides in irritated emphasis. “Is that not more proof of honor than the nobility of his birth?”

Uther’s face darkened. “You question the royal houses!?” he shouted, thunderous.

“No, father,” Arthur replied tiredly, thinking now was not the best time to mention the few knights he had been required to remove from his service due to treachery. “I am merely suggesting that Lancelot’s actions should speak for themselves, regardless of his station.”

Uther searched him for a moment, brow furrowing. “I see you feel strongly about this,” he said, slow and thoughtful.

Arthur nodded, the angry knot in his chest loosening hopefully.

Uther sighed, frowning as he turned his gaze to the side and worried at his bottom lip.

Of their own accord, Arthur’s eyes used the moment to shift to where he knew Merlin was standing, shielded from Uther’s immediate view—Arthur suspected intentionally—by a large, stone column. As soon as blue eyes locked with his, Merlin began gesticulating frantically, pointing toward the wooden door they both knew Lancelot hovered just behind, and then miming some sort of swiping motion through the air.

Arthur twitched his eyebrows together, shaking his head to convey his confusion.

Merlin’s arms fell limp for a moment, his eyes rolling heavenward in irritation, and he was incredibly lucky Arthur was one) all the way across the room, and two) in the middle of an audience with his father, because otherwise he would be on the receiving end of a sharp clip to the back of the head.

Some of his impatience must have shown in his glare, because Merlin quickly began moving again, pointing toward the door, and then slowly forming a fist, moving his hand side to side as his lips worked around a silent word. He repeated it a few times, jabbing at the door again, and, suddenly, it clicked.

“The tournament!” Arthur blurted, probably a little too eager, but Merlin beamed, and that made his father’s alarmed stare easier to bear without embarrassment. “Allow Lancelot to participate in the tournament. I assure you, he will prove his worth.”

Uther considered him carefully, and Arthur fought to keep his hands from clenching with anticipation. “Very well,” he finally said, and Arthur’s stomach relaxed. “I will allow it. But, if I do not agree…”

“I will not go against you,” Arthur interjected, bowing his head. “If, by the end of the tournament, you do not see in him what I do, I will not mention this matter again.”

Uther nodded. “Good,” he said brusquely. “You may go.”

Arthur bowed, dipping slightly at the waist, and then turned, hearing Merlin’s soft footsteps shuffling behind him to the door.

Lancelot was sitting on the floor immediately to the left of the entrance, but leapt up at their appearance, bowing to Arthur. “Your Highness,” he said, speaking to the ground before straightening.

Arthur inclined his own head in acknowledgement, and he thought he may have heard Merlin snort, but wasn’t certain enough to retaliate. “Lancelot,” he said, and the man swallowed, eyes bright and expectant. Arthur cleared his throat. “I spoke to my father and-”

“You get to compete in the tournament!”

“Merlin!?”

Merlin blinked like a startled doe as Arthur rounded on him. “Oh, I-I’m sorry. Did you wanna tell him?”

“Yes!” Arthur squawked with a jabbing nod. “That’s why I was, you know, _speaking_!”

Merlin bit his lip and dropped his face. “Sorry,” he muttered, but his contrition became less sincere as a smirk grew on his mouth.

Arthur huffed, shaking his head and rolling his eyes as he turned back to Lancelot, who looked cautiously excited. “You _do_ get to compete in the tournament,” he confirmed, and the man grinned. “My father has agreed to see how you perform, and then decide whether you can become a knight.”

Lancelot sighed out a heavy breath of relief. “Thank you, Sire,” he panted, nodding deeply. “I will not let you down.”

Arthur smiled, stepping forward to clamp his hand on the man’s shoulder. “You have nothing further to prove to me, Lancelot,” he assured, “and I am certain my father will agree.”

Lancelot’s smile turned shy, and Arthur was perplexed by how one man could possibly be so brave and so humble all at once. “Your faith in me is more than I deserve, Sire.”

“Lancelot,” Arthur sighed, shaking the man’s shoulder slightly, “you don’t have to add a title onto _everything_ you say to me. I mean, I’m sure you’re trying to make up for Merlin’s complete lack of propriety-”

“I resent that, my lord Sire Highness.”

“-but it’s really not necessary.” Arthur shot a smirking Merlin a glare before returning to smiling at Lancelot.

Lancelot, proper as always, ignored the prince/manservant exchange, seeming neither amused nor offended. “I’ll try to remember that, Si- Sorry,” he muttered as Arthur raised an eyebrow. “How- How would you prefer I address you, er…” He trailed away, eyes shifting anxiously.

Arthur smiled, shaking his head in amused indulgence. “Arthur is fine.”

“Just don’t call him prat,” Merlin felt the need to add. He didn’t meet Arthur’s eyes when Arthur looked across at him, but he definitely knew he was being watched if the growing grin was anything to go by. “That one’s mine.”

Lancelot smiled, but quickly stifled it, ducking his head, and Arthur chose to overlook it just this once.

“Are you _trying_ to get put in the stocks, Merlin?” Arthur snapped, glowering at the brunette.

Merlin, clearly lacking any and all self-preservation instincts, only chuckled. “It has been awhile; I suppose I could be getting nostalgic.”

“You were in the stocks?” Arthur asked, turning properly toward him. “When? Why?”

Merlin blinked, brow furrowing, clearly puzzled by Arthur’s earnest reaction.

Arthur was more than a little confused himself, and cleared his throat, dropping his eyes from Merlin’s for a moment as he shook it off. “No one else should be sending you to the stocks,” he added, haughty once more.

Merlin smiled softly, almost fond, as if touched by the concern Arthur was trying not to show, and wasn’t that just so completely, infuriatingly _Merlin_. “It wasn’t a big deal. I accidentally interrupted a meeting when I took that message about grain stores to the king last week.”

“He sent you to the stocks?” Years of diplomatic training meant only a little of his anger leaked through, but Merlin—damn him—noticed, blue eyes narrowing shrewdly. His tone, of course, was nothing but sarcastic.

“Well, I did interrupt an important discussion about what color would be best for his robes for the opening ceremony of the tournament. Prepare yourself for a shock: They went with red.”

Arthur couldn’t believe his ears for a moment, and gaped at Merlin, unable to believe he would _dare_ say such a thing, but it was funny, so he quickly found himself laughing. It was a breathy chuckle at first, but quickly grew to downright improper, sure to carry back into the throne room.

“I don’t know why you’re laughing,” Merlin said, but he was chuckling a little too. “You have nothing to wear now. Not without matching, and that would be rather embarrassing.”

“I’ll be wearing armor, Merlin,” Arthur reminded, laugh settling into an aching grin.

“What about after? When you’re just watching?”

Arthur’s amusement faltered. “Are you implying I’m going to _lose_?”

Merlin shrugged, eyes roving over the ceiling. “I don’t know. I’ve never seen you fight.”

Arthur stared at him a moment longer, and then grinned, tilting his head.

Merlin, for once, looked appropriately afraid.

“Well, _Mer_ lin,” Arthur crooned, and Merlin’s eyes widened, “we’ll have to do something about that.”

\---

“Ow, ow, ow, ow.” Merlin hobbled into Gaius’ chambers, each step punctuated with a pained syllable.

Gaius lifted his head from grinding something in a mortar, turning from his spot at the low, wooden table to look over Merlin’s hunched form with a raised eyebrow.

“I was helping Arthur practice for the tournament,” Merlin explained, but Gaius only tilted his head. “As a target,” he added bitterly, wincing as he continued walking.

Gaius chuckled, and Merlin gaped at him, betrayed. “Yes, he doesn’t often miss, Arthur.”

Merlin glared at him, and Gaius sighed, rolling his eyes and standing up off the bench.

“Sit down,” he said, waving a hand toward his vacated spot. “I’ll get you a salve for the bruises.”

“Does it come in buckets?” Merlin grit out as he lowered himself gingerly down, arm braced against the tabletop for support.

Gaius smiled at him over his shoulder, but did fetch a rather large jar from the cupboard. “Do you want me to…” He waved a hand up and down Merlin’s body as he approached.

“No, I can do it,” Merlin replied, holding his hand out for the jar. He sat it on the table behind him before pulling his shirt up over his head, grimacing as his muscles wrenched. The salve was cold and thick, and Merlin rubbed it between his hands before beginning to massage it over his torso, hissing at the occasional, painful brush across purpling skin. Soon enough, however, the balm began to take effect, and he could feel the soothing coolness sinking into the worn tissues.

“Better?” Gaius asked from where he was still hovering at Merlin’s side.

Merlin nodded, replacing the lid. “Much. Thank you.” He passed the jar back up to Gaius, who moved to put it away, and was just about to say he was going to bed when another thought voiced itself instead. “Gaius?”

“Hmm?” the old man hummed in reply.

Merlin bit at his lip, puzzling over the words long enough that Gaius had returned to sit in a chair beside him before he spoke again. “Something happened in the forest when I was out hunting with Arthur.”

“The griffin,” Gaius said with a nod, expression furrowed. “Are you alright? I heard there were some injuries.”

“No, no, I’m fine,” Merlin assured with a dismissive wave of his hand. “And most of the injuries weren’t that bad. I patched most everyone up. Oh, I never heard, how are the villagers?” he asked urgently, guilty for not inquiring after them sooner.

Gaius gave a small smile, and Merlin’s panic diminished somewhat. “You were right about the gentleman, his leg did need to be amputated, but everyone else’s injuries were easily taken care of. You’d done most of it already, actually; I was hardly needed.” He smiled proudly, and Merlin ducked his head, embarrassed at the compliment.

“Where is he? The man?” he asked, hoping to divert the topic.

“He had family in the city,” Gaius explained, leaning forward over his knees toward Merlin. “He is staying with them. But that isn’t what you were going to ask me.”

Merlin opened his mouth, and then closed it, dropping his head to stare at his boots on the stone floor. “We saw a unicorn in the forest,” he said, opting for the direct approach. Looking up through his lashes, he saw Gaius’ eyes had widened, but he nodded for Merlin to continue. Merlin sighed, shaking his head down at the ground, hardly able to believe he was about to say this. “Arthur showed up and it…approached him.” He looked up, afraid Gaius may be falling off his chair, but the old man only looked quizzical.

“Yes?” Gaius prompted, lifting that eyebrow again. Then he blinked, seeming almost startled, and began to laugh. “Oh, Merlin, don’t tell me you believe those silly stories? Arthur is the _prince_ of _Camelot_! You can’t possibly think he’s still a vir-”

“WOAH!” Merlin blurted, spine smashing into the table behind him as he attempted to fling himself away from the rest of that sentence. “No. No! I-I don’t- No.” He was giving himself a headache, he was shaking his head so violently, but he had to make absolutely certain that Gaius never, _ever_ mentioned that topic again, both because it was disgusting, and because Merlin’s thoughts spiraling around images of Arthur bedding faceless noblewomen was leaving a thick bitterness in his mouth. “I meant magic. I thought you had to have magic to touch a unicorn.”

Gaius’ jaw stiffened, his pale eyes suddenly not able to focus on anything for too long, especially Merlin.

“Gaius?” Merlin prompted when the man didn’t voice the _something_ that was clearly on his mind.

His mentor was clearly warring with himself over something, brow creasing as he breathed heavily through his nose.

Merlin stayed silent, confused at the reaction, but he didn’t want to push and risk alienating the only friend he had in this city and Arthur’s face was absolutely _not_ materializing in his mind right now!

“Merlin,” Gaius began, his strained voice pulling Merlin from his thoughts. “You have to understand, this is something I have been sworn to never repeat to another soul as long as I live, or I will quickly stop living.” He turned his head to look directly into Merlin’s face, and Merlin nodded, about the only thing he could do in that situation. “I have sworn an oath to the king himself, Merlin. That is how sacred this secret it.”

“Gaius, you don’t have to-”

“No, Merlin,” Gaius interrupted, anxious but determined. He leaned forward, stretching a hand out to Merlin’s knee. “You are Arthur’s friend- No, don’t argue,” he snapped when Merlin snorted. “I have known Arthur his whole life, and you are more than just a servant to him, don’t think you’re not. He’d have had you beheaded by now if he didn’t care.”

“I’m not that bad,” Merlin murmured, but Gaius silenced him with a knowing look.

“My point is, you and Arthur- Well, I can’t quite explain it, but it feels almost as if…as if you two are meant for something. As if your destinies are somehow intertwined,” he said, slow and thoughtful.

Merlin’s stomach twisted, and, for a moment, he thought he may be sick on the floor between them, but years of practiced subterfuge kept his expression clear. Gaius couldn’t possibly know about the prophecy. He would’ve said something, and it probably would have been much less kind than this.

“I think this is something that you will need to know, Merlin,” the man continued, his soft tone somehow conveying the seriousness of the situation more than any lecture could have. “But you can never tell anyone. _No one_ , Merlin. Not even Arthur.”

Merlin gave a deep nod. “I understand, Gaius. I swear to you, it will go with me to my grave.”

Gaius smiled, fingers tightening on Merlin’s leg. “I know, Merlin, I know. I trust you.”

Merlin managed to smile back through the nausea.

Gaius leaned back, his hand leaving Merlin’s knee as he folded his arms in his lap. “I don’t suppose you know anything of Arthur’s mother?”

“I know she died in childbirth,” he said with a small shrug. “The servants don’t talk about her much.”

Gaius hummed, nodding. “No, I suspect not. Uther is rather…sensitive about the topic, as you can imagine.”

Merlin nodded as if sympathetic, but he couldn’t honestly see Uther having an emotion over anything, provided that emotion wasn’t anger, at least.

“Uther and Ygraine had tried for years to conceive a child, but without success. I made her many tonics myself, but nothing worked. Nothing.” He sighed gravely, pinching the bridge of his nose.

Merlin didn’t even breathe.

“They were desperate, both of them—Ygraine for a child, and Uther for an heir.” He paused, sucking in a ragged breath. “So, they turned to magic.”

All of Arthur’s hits combined would have paled in comparison to the blow that fell to Merlin’s stomach now.

“Uther contacted a sorceress named Nimueh,” Gaius continued, and Merlin’s vision began to blur around the edges, heart hammering so fast, it was more one constant note than separate pulses. “She worked with them all through the pregnancy, but, as you know, magic always has a price. To create a life, a life must be taken, but I don’t think anyone ever dreamed…” Gaius sighed, still not looking at Merlin, who was trying to regain control of his reaction before Gaius _did_ look. “Uther was devastated, wild with grief. He blamed magic for Ygraine’s death, and what we now know as the Great Purge was the result.”

Merlin couldn’t swallow enough times to drain the acid from his mouth.

Nimueh. Nimueh had known Uther, had _helped_ him. And then she had sent him here to-to what? To enact her revenge? Was any of this about him at all; did he even _have_ a destiny here? And why hadn’t she told him about her history with Uther?

He jumped, gasping as Gaius’ hand gripped his shoulder. The man’s face came into focus as he blinked, soft and wrinkled with concern.

“I know this must be a shock,” he said gently, and Merlin almost laughed, “but you had a right to know.”

Merlin managed to nod, or at least bob his head weakly. “So, the-the unicorn…” he breathed, unable to continue, but Gaius understood.

He pulled away his hand, but stayed close in front of Merlin. “Arthur does not have magic, not the way you and I do,” he explained with a secret smile. “But he was _born_ of it. It is a part of him, an echo that lives in his soul as surely as it lives in yours. That is part of the reason I am so convinced of your shared fate.” He smiled, as if this was reassuring, and Merlin realized, to him, it probably was. He didn’t know Arthur’s fate was to die, likely at Merlin’s own hand. “You and Arthur…you’re two halves of a whole. Destiny has great things in store for you, Merlin, I can _feel_ it.” He said it so earnest, so hopeful, and his smile held so much faith, Merlin couldn’t help but smile faintly back, even as most of him wanted to cry.

“Thank you, Gaius,” he answered, voice only breaking a little. He swallowed. “I hope you’re right,” he added, and he might have even meant it.

Gaius just continued to smile, eyes a little dewy. “Well,” he said, clapping his hands on his legs before beginning to stand, “I think it’s about time we got to bed. I’m sure you have an early morning ahead of you, getting ready for the tournament.”

Merlin huffed a laugh, the pain in his body returning to the forefront of his mind as he rose, clutching at his back. “I can hardly wait,” he grunted. “Don’t know how I’ll get to sleep tonight.”

Gaius laughed, ushering Merlin to bed with a sleeping draught, but Merlin never took it.

As the sun began to creep grey into Merlin’s room, carrying birdsong along the weak rays, Merlin was still hunched over the edge of his bed, staring down at the empty shard of mirror with questions he couldn’t bring himself to ask.

\---

“No.”

“I wasn’t exactly asking, you know?”

“I don’t care, no.”

“Merlin,” Arthur sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose as he pressed his eyes shut, “I told you, it wasn’t my idea.”

The brunette crossed his arms, blue eyes stubborn. “So go back and tell your father to send someone else.”

He let out an incredulous bark of laughter. “Of course, why didn’t I think of that? Oh, that’s right, _because he’s the bloody king_!”

Merlin’s glare sharpened, and then he looked away, expression turning frustrated and helpless.

Arthur could relate. “Look, I don’t like it any more than you do-”

“Well, you can’t possibly like it _less_.”

“-but these are the king’s orders. You were there; you heard him,” Arthur added, waving a hand at the obstinate boy.

“Those were hardly _orders_ ,” Merlin countered, and Arthur couldn’t help but roll his eyes. “It was, at most, a suggestion.”

Arthur shook his head, biting his lip and lifting his head to the sky in a quick prayer for patience. “Well, when the king _suggests_ that you attend to Sir Valiant, you attend to Sir Valiant.”

Merlin clicked his tongue, rolling his eyes and turning to scowl out the window.

Arthur dropped his head, biting at his lip in restraint.

It had been the night before, the first feast of the tournament. Sir Valiant, if he merited the name, had won every match that day, and had apparently impressed Uther with his skill, if their being engrossed in conversation all night was any measure. In Arthur’s opinion, Valiant was nothing but a brute, toying with lesser opponents instead of giving them the dignity of a clean defeat, but Uther seemed to see it differently, and, when Valiant mentioned his servant had fallen ill on the way to Camelot and was unable to attend to him, the king had eagerly offered up Merlin as a substitute.

Merlin, of course, had promptly dropped the water jug he had been carrying, sputtering over the mess as his mouth tightened into a thin line.

Arthur didn’t think he’d ever forget that expression, the stifled anger and resentment that come with having your own life taken from your hands, and, in that moment, he had seen on Merlin’s face what he had felt churning in his stomach. Of course, Uther would not be swayed—not that Arthur could argue much—and, now, the next morning, it was time for Merlin to report to Valiant’s tent.

“What about Lancelot?” Merlin asked, and Arthur could see in his eyes this was a last, desperate hope. “You told me to help him practice.”

Merlin had been working with Lancelot, getting him in shape for the tournament, as Lancelot had said his swordsmanship was a little rusty. According to Merlin, Lancelot had been just fine, but Lancelot insisted Merlin was helping him improve every day. Arthur just had to take their word for it, however, because, in spite of all the laughter and clanging sparring he could hear as he approached the clearing in the forest where they practiced, the second he broke through the trees, they always stopped, suddenly needing a break for water or something or other. They were always together now, it seemed, wandering the grounds and talking—or Merlin was, at least, lips moving wildly as his hands flipped and swooped through the air in indecipherable gestures—and they were frequently found in the corner at meals, whispering and nudging one another. And maybe, _maybe_ , it had bothered Arthur a little, his servant—whom he had rescued from a lifetime of kitchen duty, thank you very much—getting so close with the would-be knight Arthur had taken under his wing (and, really, Lancelot wouldn’t even _be_ here if it wasn’t for Arthur, and now he was being repaid by being replaced) but, even so, Arthur never would have interfered with their practicing. Arthur wondered briefly if Merlin suspected as much, that Arthur wasn’t fighting harder because he was glad for the separation, but he quickly dismissed it. Even after such a short time, he was fairly sure Merlin knew him better than that.

“You can still help him practice any time you’re not attending to Valiant, but you do _have_ to attend to Valiant, Merlin,” Arthur replied, much less stern than he’d intended, not that it would have had any effect on Merlin’s reaction either way, and the boy only snorted.

“Yeah, because I’ll have _so_ much free time between polishing your armor and licking Valiant’s boots,” Merlin snapped, flicking a hand toward Arthur’s feet.

Arthur shook his head. “You won’t be attending to me anymore, Merlin. Not until after the tournament.”

“What?” Merlin bleated, and Arthur had thought he looked wounded _before_. “What do you mean? Why not?”

Arthur blinked, completely taken aback by the frantic reaction. “Well, because that’s too much to do,” he muttered, gathering himself. “It’s much easier to find me another servant than it is to find Lancelot someone else to practice with.”

“So you’re _replacing_ me!?” Merlin very nearly shouted, and then shot a nervous glance backward toward the door.

“No,” Arthur replied, measured and careful. “I’m not replacing you, I’m merely…giving you a leave of absence.”

“I don’t need a leave of absence,” Merlin insisted, grimacing in disgust at the idea. “I can get everything done. And, besides,”—he crossed his arms with a cocky tilt of his head—“how will you get dressed without me?”

“I can dress myself, Merlin,” Arthur muttered stiffly, unamused.

“You got your head caught in a sleeve,” Merlin said, smiling.

Arthur spluttered. “Those are big sleeves and I- You know what, I don’t even need to be _having_ this conversation with you! I gave you an order, now go attend to Sir Valiant.”

“But I want-”                                                        

“It doesn’t matter what you want!” The words no sooner passed Arthur’s lips than he regretted them, ashamed under Merlin’s startled, blue gaze, and he felt his contorted expression slide away. “I need you to stay with Valiant,” he said softly, dropping his eyes sidelong to the floor. “I- I’m not sure-”

“He can be trusted?”

Arthur’s head shot up. “You don’t think so either?” he asked, and Merlin shook his head with a frown, his eyes not quite meeting Arthur’s. “Why not?”

Merlin said nothing, turning his head a fraction away.

“What do you know, Merlin?” Arthur urged, perhaps a little gruffer than necessary, but Merlin was being petulant, and he was frustrated and tired. He hadn’t slept well last night, knowing this conversation was coming with the dawn.

It seemed a small eternity until Merlin spoke, and, when he did, it was in a small, hesitant voice Arthur didn’t think he’d ever heard before. “It- It is not my place to speak ill of a knight.”

Arthur’s mouth may have clipped the stone at his feet. “Not your- Merlin, you just told me I got my head caught in a sleeve.”

“You _did_ get your head caught in a sleeve.”

“That’s not the point!” he snapped, whipping his hands to scatter the words. He sighed, trying to overcome the ever-present urge to strangle the brunette in front of him. “Merlin,” he began, notably calmer, and the other boy didn’t look quite so alarmed, “my _point_ is, you don’t have to worry about what you say to me.”

Merlin looked surprised, blinking in a burst, and then his face settled into wary confusion.

“If I was going to throw you in the stocks, I would’ve done it by now. And I’d have a lot more cause than speaking ill of a knight.” He chuckled lightly, and an answering smile quivered on Merlin’s lips.

He then nodded, more to the floor than to Arthur, before properly meeting his eyes once again. “Thank you. Sire,” he said with a lift of half his mouth, and Arthur felt as though he’d never truly heard his title until this moment, when the weight of the word filled Merlin’s mouth.

Arthur smiled back, and then cleared his throat. “So, what is it? Why do you not trust Valiant?”

Merlin worried his lip, eyes downcast with indecision. He then nodded, a quick jolt of his head that seemed mostly to himself. “Something he said at the feast last night…”

“ _Mer_ lin!” Arthur groaned, possibly more frustrated than he had ever been in his life. Merlin had that effect on him.

“Alright, alright!” Merlin muttered, waving a hand at him, and Arthur made yet another mental note to remind Merlin exactly who he was. “He was asking your father about…succession.”

Arthur’s fist clenched, his jaw stiffening, but he bit back the ill-directed bellow that rose in his chest. “Go on,” he said, and Merlin raised an eyebrow at, as Merlin liked to call it, his ‘I have to be diplomatic because you’re important, but I’d really rather strangle you’ voice.

“Apparently, Valiant is, like…an extremely distant cousin of yours or something, and he was- Well, he wasn’t exactly _asking_ —he was being a bit more subtle than that—but I believe what he was _trying_ to do was figure out what it would take for him to become heir to the throne…” Merlin said the last part very carefully, hesitating over every word, and it was only his obvious awareness of how upsetting this information was that stopped Arthur from launching a chair into the wall.

“He _what_?” Arthur bit out, and Merlin cringed sympathetically.

“They were talking about how well Valiant had been doing in the tournament,” Merlin continued, quicker now, “and, naturally, your father started boasting about how well _you_ had been doing, and…I don’t know, it just felt like he was trying to…undermine you somehow. I don’t know, I’m probably just-”

“Don’t do that,” Arthur interjected, and Merlin lifted his head from where he had ducked it, rubbing at the back of his neck. “Don’t doubt your instincts, Merlin. They’re your most important tool in battle.”

“Arthur,” Merlin said gently, taking a small step forward, “this isn’t battle. This is a git with a big mouth.”

“What did he say?”

Merlin blinked, brow creasing as he tilted his head. “Sorry?”

“You said he was trying to undermine me,” Arthur spat, his palms aching where his fingers dug into the muscle. “What _exactly_ did he say?”

Merlin watched him warily for a moment, as if gauging how close Arthur was to flying into a rage, but he must have passed inspection, because Merlin answered. “Small things. Nothing immediately improper, but- Like, I remember he said something about how he wasn’t so sure how you would perform today, considering you had been favoring your left leg.”

“I was _not_ favoring my-”

“I know, I know,” Merlin soothed, lifting his hands. “I was there, remember? But, that’s what I mean, little things like that. They’re not obvious, but he still-”

“He’s suggesting I’m not up for the task of being king,” Arthur said coldly, and Merlin nodded, dropping his head. “He’s trying to make me look _weak_.” He slammed a fist down on the table, impressed even through the red haze of fury that Merlin didn’t startle. He bit at his lip, considering, while Merlin remained mute in front of him, hands clasping together as he watched, eyes earnest with concern.

Finally, Arthur took a deep breath, pulling his hand from the wood and turning to his manservant. “I need you to stay with him,” he said.

Merlin straightened slightly, but looked more determined now than argumentative.

“I need to know what he’s up to. Right now, it’s just talk, but, if he makes a move…” He stopped, looking up at Merlin out of the tops of his eyes.

Merlin gave a firm nod. “I’ll let you know if I find anything,” he said, ducking his head before moving past Arthur toward the door.

“Oh, and Merlin?” Arthur called, and Merlin spun on his boots, door half-open in front of him. “Do be careful,” he said, dropping his head as he smiled. “I can’t keep getting new manservants. People will start to talk.”

Merlin beamed back at him, and Arthur blinked, a little thrown by the brilliance of it. “And, if there’s one thing you hate, it’s being the center of attention.”

“Go!” Arthur commanded, but it was broken up by a laugh, and the small apple he plucked off his breakfast plate and threw ricocheted off the door as Merlin ducked quickly out.

\---

Merlin had had better days. He was dirty, damp, and aching, and he ducked into yet another alcove to avoid a group of patrolling knights, not wanting to risk running into Leon or Lancelot and having to explain things. All he wanted was a bath and his straw mattress, not a fuss made over his bloodied lip and rotten-fruit-stained clothes, so he was winding his way up the castle stairways, staying as out of sight as possible.

So, of course, he ran headlong into someone.

“Oh, god, I’m sorry, I didn’t- Lady Morgana!”

The woman looked terribly pale, even more than the moonlight or shock could account for, and she clutched her cloak closed tightly at the neck. “Merlin,” she breathed, face relaxing somewhat as she blinked. It quickly formed a frown, however, as she scanned over him. “What happened? Your face-” She reached a hand up toward his lip, and then stopped, eyes flicking down to her own hand in apparent surprise before she lowered it back to her side.

“It’s nothing, my lady,” Merlin assured, nodding as he attempted to angle his face away from the light. “Just an accident on the training ground. I’ll make a salve for it when I get back to Gaius’ chambers.”

“You’re quite good at that, aren’t you? Medicine,” she said, smiling softly as she folded her arms.

Merlin rubbed at the back of his neck, looking at a spot on the wall near Morgana’s feet. “I have learned a lot under Gaius’ tutelage, my lady.”

Morgana raised an eyebrow. “Are you certain you don’t have noble blood in you, Merlin?” she asked coyly. “Because that was an evasive answer equal to any lord.”

Merlin smiled down at his boots, his instant fondness for Morgana making more sense all the time. “I did not mean to evade your question, my lady, only to express that any talent I may possess is due to Gaius’ teaching.”

“I’m not so sure of that,” she countered, green eyes almost eerily focused. “Arthur told me about what happened in the forest. Surely, Gaius didn’t have time to teach you all of that.”

Merlin watched her, forehead wrinkling in suspicion, and, as he stared, a corner of her mouth twitched. “My lady, if I may,” he began softly. “Why are you asking me this?”

Morgana faltered, lips trembling apart, and her eyes widened for a fleeting instant before she ducked her head. “I- Nothing. I was merely…curious.”

A thought occurred to Merlin, so sudden and strange, it was almost as though it were planted there. “Did you…need something? From Gaius?” he asked, leaning in toward her.

“I-” Morgana stammered, taking a small step backward as she tugged at the top of her cloak again. She hesitated, eyes flicking side to side over the empty hallway as she tugged at her top lip with her teeth. “I-I have nightmares,” she said softly, not meeting his eyes. “Gaius gives me a tonic for them, but it’s been so long since I had one, I thought they were gone. I checked his chambers and he wasn’t there.” She looked desperate, helpless with fear, and Merlin, yet again, felt a kinship between them, like the tug of a thread strung around his heart.

“I can make it for you,” he offered, and her head snapped up, reminding him of his position. “If you would like, that is. My lady,” he added stiffly, his voice rushed, but the knot in his stomach loosened as she smiled.

“I wouldn’t wish to trouble you,” she said, voice exhausted. “You look like the last thing you want to do is more work.”

“Helping you would hardly be work, my lady,” he said, and she returned the smile he gave her. He nodded his head down the corridor toward Gaius’ chambers, and she started silently across the stones, slowing to look over her shoulder after a short distance.

“Don’t walk behind me, Merlin,” she muttered, rolling her eyes. “I know you’re supposed to, but I’ve always found it rather disconcerting.”

Merlin chuckled, and then quickened his stride to come level with her.

“Does Arthur always have you working this late?” she asked as they reached the large, wooden door, her tone heavy with disapproval.

Merlin shook his head, closing the door behind her, assuming discretion was more important than propriety in this particular situation. “No, my lady. I wasn’t working with Arthur today. I’ve been…temporarily reassigned.”

“Reassigned?” she repeated, sitting down in the chair Merlin pulled out. “He didn’t dismiss you, did he? Oh, him and his precious _ego_ , I swear!”

“He hasn’t dismissed me,” Merlin interrupted, turning from where he was pulling vials from the cupboard, and a half-risen Morgana slowly sank back into her seat, expression skeptical. “I’ve been moved to Sir Valiant’s service for the duration of the tournament.”

“Valiant!?” Morgana screeched incredulously, and then flashed a worried glance back to the door. No one burst through to defend her honor, however, and, after a moment, she continued. “But he’s _horrible_! Is that how you got that bloody lip? Did he strike you!?”

“No, no,” Merlin soothed, temporarily abandoning gathering ingredients to wave Morgana down with his hands. “That was a still-quite-ripe apple. I spent most of today in the stocks.”

Morgana’s brow wrinkled as she tilted her head. “The stocks? Why were you in the stocks?”

“I was late,” Merlin shrugged, turning back to the cupboard and continuing to fish out ingredients. “And his armor wasn’t shiny enough, and I wasn’t quick enough wiping his brow, and a couple of other things, I don’t honestly remember.” He moved to the table beside her, clinking the bottles down onto the surface before dragging over a mortar and pestle.

“That’s ridiculous!” Morgana snapped, turning her body toward where he stood as he worked. “You have to tell Arthur. He would never allow-”

“I’m afraid Arthur doesn’t have a choice in the matter, my lady,” Merlin answered with a strained smile down at her. He quickly realized his slip, however, and expected to be reprimanded for leaving off Arthur’s title, but Morgana only looked at him quizzically, not appearing the slightest bit startled. “It was the king’s request that I attend to Valiant during the tournament. His servant fell ill on their trip here and had to return home.”

“Why does it have to be you, though?” Morgana asked, and Merlin’s hands paused in their work.

It was the question he had been pondering all day, piecing together bits and pieces of his close observance of Valiant to try and form an answer, but it was only now, hearing the question formed aloud on Morgana’s lips, did he know the truth of his suspicions. “I think, if I may…” he said, pausing to flash her a sidelong glance.

Morgana rolled her eyes, but curled a hand to encourage him on.

Merlin focused intently down at his hands mashing flowers into the tonic. “Valiant talks about Arthur a lot, my lady. Always degrading him, boasting about all the ways he’s superior.” Now it was Merlin’s turn to roll his eyes, but the austereness of the situation quickly settled back over him. “I believe, in having me as his servant, or, rather, taking me from Arthur-”

“It’s just another way of asserting his superiority,” Morgana said, frowning as she looked down to her knees.

Merlin nodded, suppressing a small smile. They really were a lot alike, Morgana and Arthur, although neither of them would agree with the comparison.

“Still,” she said, lifting her head, stubborn fire flashing in her gaze, “you shouldn’t let him mistreat you. You are still a citizen of Camelot; he has no right to issue you punishment.”

Merlin did smile at that, albeit with a note of bitterness. “I am only a servant, my lady,” he replied, weaker than he would have liked. “I’m afraid not all rights descend to me.”

“You don’t truly believe that, do you?” Morgana questioned quietly, eyebrows folding.

Merlin only tilted his head, gaze moving away from her as he strained the liquid into a vial.

“I know you haven’t been here very long, Merlin,” she continued, rising to stand beside him, “but surely you know you’re more than just a servant.”

Merlin’s mouth moved around a clarifying question, but Morgana didn’t give him the chance, plucking the vial from his grasp and walking around him with a knowing smile.

“Thank you for the tonic,” she said, turning back at the door. “I would appreciate if this stayed between us, though. You understand?” She phrased it like a question instead of the usual entitled assumption of agreement so common with nobles, her face genuinely concerned with his approval.

He smiled, nodding. “Of course, my lady,” he said, and she smiled warmly back before sliding out into the corridor, the door closing with a soft click behind her.

As soon as enough time had passed for her to get some distance away, Merlin left, rushing down to the caves beneath the castle, magic surging out in response to the tumult in his chest, torches and tapestries flickering and shifting in his wake.

“Do you know why I’m here?” he asked the seemingly empty cavern, but a rustle and rush of air greeted his words.

“To talk to me, I would assume,” Kilgharrah replied as he came to perch on the large rock out ahead.

Merlin huffed, patience worn thin by a day taking orders from a moron and a crippling amount of helpless self-doubt. “No, why I’m here in Camelot. Do you know why I came here?”

Kilgharrah’s massive head tilted slightly. “Because it is your destiny, Emrys.”

“Yes, but do you know what that destiny is?” He was nearly shouting now, stepping further onto the outcropping toward the dragon.

Kilgharrah was silent for a moment, watching him with sharp eyes. “You are to help the Once and Future King herald in the new age of Albion.”

“How? How am I supposed to do that?” Merlin barked, arms swooping out in irritation.

“The path will become clear when you-”

“Do I have to kill them?” Merlin interjected, the time for cryptic non-answers far past. “Uther, I can understand, but the others? Morgana, Lancelot, Leon, Gwen? Arthur?” he added after a moment’s pause. “They will defend Camelot, defend the Pendragon reign. Does he have to die? Do they all have to die?”

Kilgharrah’s scaly eyebrow lifted. “Destiny is not a fixed course, young warlock. There are many paths to the same destination.”

“What does that _mean_!?” Merlin snarled, fingers tugging up through his hair. “It’s a simple question! Do I have to kill them or not?”

“These choices are your own, Emrys,” Kilgharrah said almost kindly, his head bowing. “You are not bound by the same fates as men.”

Merlin blinked, aggression withering as his hands fell back to his sides. “So…I _am_ going to help the Once and Future King, but how I get there…that’s my decision?”

Kilgharrah nodded, the gesture sending a wisp of wind ruffling through Merlin’s hair. “Indeed, young warlock. Your question is your own to answer. Will you kill them?”

Merlin opened his mouth, ready to recite the answer he had been so sure of only months ago, but his lips slowly closed, and he left without another word.

\---

It was the second-to-last day of the tournament, and Arthur was, for once, looking forward to the end. He hadn’t seen Merlin at all in the past two days, except from a distance when he was running around after Valiant, and Morgana had started informing him at regular intervals that he was going to wrinkle if he kept glowering like that, but Arthur couldn’t help it. Valiant was up to something, he was sure of it, and Merlin was far too close to it for Arthur’s comfort.

He adjusted his sword at the thought, anxious with the unknown, and continued his stride through the colorful tents. He had had his tent moved to the far side of the cluster, earning a few raised eyebrows from the servants who couldn’t understand why he’d want to be so far from the castle, but the switch allowed him to walk past all the other tents without drawing suspicion. He slowed as he drew near Valiant’s tent, tugging at the buckles on his armor for an excuse, but stopped completely when he heard a loud shout from within.

“You call this polished!?”

A figure staggered out from the flap of the tent, legs stuttering over the ground in an attempt to gain balance, but the body quickly hit the ground in a splay of limbs.

“What did you do, _spit_ on it!?” Valiant emerged, brandishing a helmet in front of him while his other hand held his sword.

Merlin lifted a frail arm for a shield as Valiant threw the helmet toward him, thankfully missing to hit the grass.

Arthur’s fists clenched.

“Do it again,” Valiant barked, pointing down at the discarded helmet.

A muscle twitched in Merlin’s neck, but he nodded, reaching out the gather the helmet to his side.

“And sharpen this,” the paltry excuse for a knight added, tossing his sword down at Merlin’s feet. The blade hit against the outside of Merlin’s calf, and, while Arthur was too far away to see if there was a wound, he did see Merlin’s teeth dig sharply into his lip as he twitched.

Arthur wanted to lunge, to shout, to strangle that sneer off Valiant’s face, but Merlin only nodded down at his legs.

“Right away, Sir,” he grit through bared teeth, and Valiant huffed a smug chuckle before turning back inside.

The moment he was gone from sight, the tension in Merlin’s body unwound, and he sighed, pushing to his feet with the helmet tucked under his arm. He picked up the sword, turning it so the edges caught the light, and then shook his head exasperatedly, no doubt seeing, just as Arthur could, that the blade was plenty sharp enough. He then stiffened slightly, head slowly twisting on his neck as if to check for onlookers behind him before he began to walk toward the castle.

Arthur stayed, waiting to be noticed where he was hovering, and watched as Merlin side-stepped closer to the tent. Arthur opened his mouth to warn him he was about to trip on one of the tent pegs, when Merlin swung the sword down to his side in one lightning sweep, the blade cutting cleanly through one of the support ropes, which went rocketing upward as the tension was released.

There was a yelp from inside the collapsing fabric, as well as a rather impressive crash, and Merlin leapt forward, sword cradled in front of him as he started to run. His eyes found Arthur’s then, however, and he stopped, mouth popping open in surprise. He threw a quick glance back at the half-fallen tent, the cursing from within growing more animated by the second, and then turned back to Arthur, expression tight with guilt.

Arthur responded with a silent jerk of his head, toward his tent instead of the castle, and Merlin looked skeptical for a moment until a clear word broke through the furious snarling.

“MERLIN!” Valiant bellowed, and Merlin’s eyebrows shot up before he turned on a heel, scurrying to Arthur’s side.

They walked as fast as they dared, studiously avoiding one another’s gaze. They tried to look as nonchalant as possible, in spite of the shouting behind them gradually garnering more attention, but no one attempted to stop or question them, and they were barreling through the entrance of Arthur’s tent in record time. They simply stood there for a moment, breathing a little heavier as they listened to Valiant’s raving fade away, but when their eyes met as they made to turn away, they broke.

Valiant’s helmet and sword tumbled to the ground with a clatter as Merlin staggered back, clutching at his stomach as he bent double with laughter. He snapped a hand out to latch onto a nearby table, holding himself upright, while Arthur stepped back to brace himself against a chair, the tent blurring as his eyes watered with mirth.

“Are you _insane_!?” he finally managed to wheeze out, his lungs heaving for air.

“I don’t know what happened,” Merlin laughed, shaking his head helplessly. “I was just sitting there staring at his fat, stupid face, and then the rope was just there, and I…” He shrugged, waving a hand through the air, and Arthur couldn’t speak for another few minutes as he crumbled into laughter again.

“You’re going to get the stocks for that, you know?” he asked when he could breathe.

Merlin grinned, and then shrugged a shoulder. “That’s alright. Some things are worth it.” He sighed, leaning against the table, a distant smile on his face. “Every rotten egg I get, I’ll just think of Valiant screaming like a girl.”

Arthur chuckled, shaking his head down at the ground, and Merlin was still beaming at him when he lifted it. “It was a rather great sound, wasn’t it?” he said, and Merlin chuckled, turning his face to the draped fabric ceiling.

“That it was,” he mused, long, thin fingers rapping against the wooden table edge. “That it was.” He looked back at Arthur, his smile soft, and Arthur felt a bit wrong-footed by the shift

Sunlight was filtering through the draperies in the tent, casting a red glow that caught in Merlin’s hair and flushed his face, and the awareness that they were alone and staring at one another only a few steps apart hit Arthur with a twist in his stomach, and he swallowed hard against it.

Merlin’s smile faltered, and he pushed away from the table, leaving Arthur with a sickly feeling of guilt he couldn’t quite affix a cause to. “I should go,” Merlin said, a little stiffly to Arthur’s ears as he gathered up the foreign helmet and sword, strapping the latter to his belt. “The eggs await,” he added, a bit lighter, but his smile still didn’t quite reach his eyes, and then he turned away, heading toward the exit.

“Merlin-” Arthur began, twisting to face him, but no further words came, in spite of the fact that he felt there was something he had forgotten to say.

Merlin smiled fondly, his head tilting a fraction, and Arthur was both unsettled and relieved at the apparent reading of his mind. “Come see me later,” Merlin said, eyes widening along with Arthur’s, as if he was surprised at his own boldness. “Maybe bring a tomato or something,” he added in a quick mutter, feet shuffling in the grass. “Mix it up a bit.” He laughed, high and nervous, and then dropped his head with a small cough.

Arthur smiled, impossibly charmed by the oddity of his manservant. “I’ll see what I can do,” he answered, and Merlin’s shouldered relaxed with relief.

“Good, that’s…good. Well,” he muttered, taking a sweeping, backward step toward the exit, “maybe I’ll see you, then. I’ll be the one in the stocks,” he joked, pointing behind him with a thumb, his chuckle quickly aborted to an awkward hum.

Arthur sucked his lips around a smile, and Merlin let out a strangled cough as he backed further away, slapping a fist against the opposite, open palm.

“Right, I’ll just- Yeah-” He turned on the spot, nothing short of charging out the flap of the tent, and Arthur waited until he could no longer hear the clink of the metal helmet before he burst into laughter.

Running a hand through his hair, he leaned back against the chair, sighing happily up at the ceiling, ribbons of red and gold streaming out from the fabric epicenter. “Merlin,” he murmured, shaking his head, his chuckles slowly growing to full laughter again in the sunlit silence of the Pendragon tent.

A half hour later, Arthur was still smiling for no reason, tossing an apple through the air and periodically taking bites as he made his way to the lower town. As he neared the stocks, shouting reached his ears, and his steps quickened with concern. He rounded the corner just in time to see a handful of lettuce slap Merlin across the cheek.

Somehow, it was only then that it occurred to Arthur that he’d never seen someone in the stocks before. He had sent people there, of course, for reasons that seemed incredibly petty now that he saw what happened to them, but he’d never been there for that part, never cared to know the consequences he had lain down. Seeing Merlin there—locked in wood and iron, back bent awkwardly, head twisting to accommodate a swallow—lifted something thick and acrid up Arthur’s throat, and he moved forward to stop it, to pry that lock apart with his bare hands if he had to.

And then, Merlin laughed.

“20 to Ben!” he exclaimed, shaking bits of lettuce from his hair. “Arm’s really coming along too, Jesus,” he added, working his jaw in circles. “You’ve got some competition, Ed. Alright, who’s next!?”

Arthur just stared. So did everyone else, but they were looking at him, and, eventually, Merlin did too. At least, he tried to, wriggling and stretching his neck until he could follow the crowd’s gaze.

“Ar- Sire!” Merlin sputtered, clearly surprised. “What are you doing here?”

Arthur blinked, and then remembered how to work his body. “You told me to come,” he snapped, hooking a thumb over his belt and ambling forward, apple crunching as he took another bite.

Merlin looked at least a little chagrined at being confronted with their previous conversation, his shoulders shifting as he dropped his eyes, but he never stopped smiling. “I know, but I didn’t expect you _would_.”

“Are you joking?” Arthur replied, moving to stand in front of Merlin so he could stop craning his neck like that. “The chance to see you being pelted with rotten food? Wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

Merlin beamed. “The whole world?” he crooned, and Arthur nearly choked on his apple at _that_ tone coming out of _that_ mouth. Merlin just grinned at him. “I think I’m flattered. I’m not positive, but I’m pretty sure.”

“Glad to hear it,” Arthur grumbled, and Merlin chuckled. “How long have you been in here?”

Merlin shrugged, but, when he spoke, his tone was anything but nonchalant. “Twenty minutes or so,” he answered.

Arthur’s jaw squared, and Merlin smiled in commiseration. They both knew that wasn’t enough time for Arthur to let him out without causing suspicion.

“Just enough time to get a good game going,” Merlin added, nodding toward the small gathering of townspeople.

Arthur quickly turned, having forgotten there were other people for a moment, but he and Merlin had been talking too quietly to be overheard regardless. “A game?” he questioned, looking over the crowd. They were arranged in something of a queue, he supposed, but, other than that, nothing appeared to be organized.

“Yeah. I’ve been in here a lot lately—Don’t ask,” he added in a low mutter when Arthur rounded on him, “and so it only made sense to liven it up a bit.”

“You livened up…the stocks?” Arthur dropped his head, raising an eyebrow at the splattered, grinning brunette.

Merlin nodded eagerly. “It’s a point system. 5 if it hits the board, 10 for the torso, 15 for a limb, and 20 for the face. Oh, and minus 30 for the groin, because you really have to draw the line somewhere.” Merlin bobbed his head as if he were imparting sage wisdom, and Arthur was nearly undone, having to duck his face and take several deep breaths before he could speak.

“You made a game out of people throwing food at you?” he asked, chuckles breaking the words.

“Mhmm,” Merlin hummed, eyes bright and proud, like it was the most brilliant thing in the world, and, Arthur thought, maybe Merlin was.

“You’re ridiculous,” he chuckled, shaking his head. “You can’t even do _punishment_ correctly!”

“It was boring!” Merlin insisted, slumping as he rolled his eyes.

“It’s supposed to be boring, Merlin,” Arthur attempted to chastise, but his damn face wouldn’t stop smiling. “You’re meant to be reevaluating your choices.”

“Ah,” Merlin sighed, brow furrowing with thought. “Well, then, given this valuable time to reconsider my place in the universe, I’ve come to the conclusion that I’d prefer to be in the stocks in the summer.”

Arthur snorted, but quickly schooled his expression into polite curiosity. “Really? And why is that?”

Merlin sort of shrugged, but mostly just twitched. “I like strawberries,” he replied, and it took Arthur a moment to remember Merlin was in the stocks and they were having a conversation about seasonal preferences for being pelted with fruit, the comment was spoken in such a casual tone.

“Well, try to make all your mistakes in the summer, then,” Arthur replied with a smirk.

Merlin barked a quick laugh, dropping his face. “I will certainly endeavor to, Sire,” he said, bowing his head as best he could.

Once again, Arthur found himself caught in a smiling and staring contest. He cleared his throat. “Right, well… Don’t let me ruin the fun,” he called, waving back over the produce-wielding crowd. “I’ll be back within the hour to congratulate the winner,” he added, and a few of the group laughed, but he flashed a heavy glance Merlin’s way.

Merlin nodded, a small, grateful smile brightening his blue eyes, and then turned back to the people. “Alright, Ed! Time to defend your title!” he exclaimed, and the laughter and goading followed Arthur all the way to the gate.

\---

“It’s fine, really,” Merlin sighed, batting Lancelot’s hand away. “I’ll heal it, alright? Now can we talk about something else?”

Lancelot huffed, nostrils flaring. “Will you just let me-”

Merlin growled, brushing him off _again_. “Of the two of us, who is the trained physician?”

“But, I just-”

“Ah-ah!” Merlin snapped, stretching away as he lifted a hand as a barrier between them. “Trained physician,” he said, slow with emphasis as he tapped his fingers against his sternum. “And sorcerer, so, ya know,” he muttered, lifting the cool, wet cloth to his swollen eye, “I can handle it.”

Lancelot sighed, leaning back against the wall beside the carved window seat where Merlin sat. “I still say you should tell-”

“No.”

“He would want to know.”

“No.”

“No, he wouldn’t want to know?”

“No, I don’t want to tell him.”

“Why not?” Lancelot pled, moving in front of Merlin, arms stretched out in frustration. “He could put a stop to it!”

“I told you,” Merlin snarled, trying to be extra intimidating to make up for only having one exposed eye to glare with, “I can handle it.”

Lancelot opened his mouth, clearly prepared to continue this pointless circle of an argument, but they were interrupted by the clicking of heels, too close to avoid.

Merlin pulled the cloth from his eye, hastily shoving it up his sleeve before two figures rounded the corner.

“But it makes so much more sense,” Morgana was saying, sounding even more frustrated than Lancelot.

“I could never impose upon you like that, my lady. You have been too kind to me already,” Gwen replied from where she followed a few steps behind her, hands clasped together.

Morgana sighed, and Merlin imagined he could hear her rolling her eyes. “I understand you wish to remain with your family, Gwen, but you’re all the way in the lower town! It’s terribly inconvenient, and your brother is home now; surely he can take care of your father.”

“I’m afraid, my lady, you have never seen my brother’s attempt at supper,” Gwen answered, and Morgana laughed, both of them smiling when their faces appeared in the light of a torch.

“Oh,” Morgana said as she saw them, eyes travelling between the two men. “Lancelot. Merlin. What are you doing here? Shouldn’t you be at the feast?”

“We were, my lady,” Lancelot replied, bowing deeply, “but we have since had our fill.”

“Yeah,” Merlin snorted, crossing his arms. “Of _Valiant_.”

“ _Merlin_!” Lancelot hissed in censure at the exact moment Morgana groaned.

“Oh, he was _awful_ tonight, wasn’t he?” she spouted. “By the way,” she added, looking around at them all, “if anyone asks, I’m asleep in my chambers right now. I couldn’t take one more minute sitting next to that _pig_.”

Merlin nodded, never agreeing with a statement more in his life, while Lancelot and Gwen merely ducked their heads, too polite to agree.

“You fought well today, Lancelot,” Morgana continued, and the knight started.

“Thank you, my lady,” he said, nearly bending in half with a bow.

Morgana smiled softly. “I heard Uther was quite impressed. Although, in my opinion, you should have won. Valiant throwing that sand was in poor taste at best.”

Merlin knew Lancelot agreed—he’d even used some almost-impolite words during their discussion—but Lancelot showed nothing more than a slight stiffening of his back now.

“He was the better fighter today,” the knight answered with a brisk nod, “but I doubt he will fare as well tomorrow.”

The tournament had been divided into two large groups that fought through their own ranks before two champions emerged for the final round. Arthur, not wanting any of his knights throwing a fight with him, and put them all in the opposite group from him, the group Valiant had happened to be in, and the final melee of that side had come down to Lancelot and him. Valiant had won—or cheated, as Merlin had been correcting every time Lancelot used the ‘w’ word—and would face Arthur in the final tomorrow.

Merlin wasn’t concerned about Arthur losing, not on the basis of skill alone, but he still hadn’t been able to find out what Valiant was planning. The possibility that he would attempt something in the ring tomorrow, right in front of everyone, was slim, but Merlin was concerned all the same. He’d been redoubling his efforts to expose Valiant, which meant spending more time around him, which had, of course, led to his current predicament of not being able to blink without pain. Merlin was lucky like that.

“Merlin?”

“Hmm?” He turned, realizing he had at some point moved to look out the window, to find Lancelot and Gwen had drifted off to the side, talking quietly together and avoiding making direct eye contact, and Morgana had shifted to directly in front of him. He took a small step back. “Sorry, I-”

“What happened to your eye?” she asked, alarmed and drawing closer, cornering him against the wall.

“Your eye?” Gwen echoed, and Merlin looked desperately to Lancelot for help, but the traitor only moved out of the way to let Gwen pass. “Oh, gods, Merlin,” she breathed as she peered up at him, fingers lifting near his cheek, but not touching. “That looks terrible. How did it happen?”

“I can venture a guess,” Morgana growled, and Merlin grimaced even though the thousand imagined scenarios of painful death he could practically see flashing through her eyes were not directed at him.

Gwen looked across at the pale woman, confused, and then looked back to Merlin, eyes growing wide with horror. “No. No, he-he wouldn’t dare. Would he?”

Merlin looked anywhere but at anyone.

“Merlin?” Gwen pressed, and he made a mental note not to forget that she could be intimidating when she wanted.

“It-It was an accident,” he lied horribly, voice shaking all over the place. “He was training and-”

“Right,” Morgana snapped, grabbing him around the wrist and tugging him away from the group, “that’s it.”

“Ah! What are you-” Merlin spluttered, but Morgana hissed him silent.

“No, Merlin! This has gone too far, and we’re putting a stop to it _right now_.” Morgana’s grip was relentless, her deceptively frail fingers holding like a vice.

Merlin twisted back to Lancelot and Gwen, but neither of them looked ready to interfere. Gwen looked concerned, whereas Lancelot just looked smug, but their faces disappeared as Morgana dragged him around the turn of the corridor and started up a staircase.

“My lady-”

“Shh!” Morgana spat, hand tightening, and Merlin felt it was in his best interests to be quiet after that, simply stumbling along after her as she led him to the only logical destination.

Arthur was sitting behind his desk when they burst in, Morgana forgoing all proper decorum of knocking, but Arthur didn’t seem surprised, only raising an inquiring eyebrow. “Before the shouting starts,” he said, scraping his chair out behind him as he stood, “can you at least close the door? I think the kitchens heard you last time.”

Morgana made a low sound in her throat, almost a growl, and never took her eyes off Arthur as she muttered, “Merlin.”

Merlin obliged, glad to be released from the vice of Morgana’s fingers, and he stretched his wrist in circles as he turned and latched the door.

“Now,” Arthur began, crossing his ankles in front of him as he leaned back against the front of his desk, “what can I do for you?”

“For starters,” Morgana snarled, stepping forward, her body opening to wave a hand back at Merlin, “you can remove Merlin from Valiant’s service _immediately._ ”

Arthur’s eyes dropped to his boots. “I can’t do that, Morgana. I don’t expect you to understand, but-”

“Oh, I understand perfectly,” Morgana interjected, folding her arms. “You and Merlin and your secret little spy project, but, for heaven’s sake, Arthur, enough is enough!”

“What are you talking about?” Arthur questioned, uncrossing his feet and planting his hands over the edge of the desk on either side of his hips. He flicked a glance past her to look curiously at Merlin, but Merlin only shrugged, careful to angle his left side out of view.

“What am I talking about? Look at him!” she shrieked, flapping a hand back again.

Arthur looked between them, face progressively wrinkling in confusion.

Morgana turned back then, and gave a long-suffering sigh as she lunged out at Merlin, grabbing him by the elbow and jerking him forward with a lurch before he could do anything to prevent it.

Merlin stumbled as he regained his balance, but kept his face turned to the ground.

“Merlin?” Arthur inquired, and Merlin could hear his boots click a step closer on the floor.

Merlin took a deep breath, licking at his lips, his teeth digging into the bottom one as he slowly lifted his head, eyes fixed on the curtains over the window to his right.

“Your eye!” Arthur blurted, taking another small step. “What- What happened?”

“Yes, Merlin,” Morgana chirped, arms crossing as she lifted a superior eyebrow. “What _did_ happen?”

Merlin looked between them, throat crackling as he fumbled for words.

“Merlin!”

“It’s nothing,” Merlin spluttered at Arthur’s shout. “Just a training-”

Morgana and Arthur both scoffed.

“Okay!” Merlin exclaimed, lifting his hands in surrender. He sighed, frustrated, running a hand back through his hair. “There may have been a small altercation.”

“With Valiant,” Morgana supplied, the name venomous on her tongue.

Merlin nodded, dropping his eyes apologetically at Arthur’s hurt expression. “He suggested he would win tomorrow,” he explained, lifting a hand at Arthur, “and I…respectfully disagreed.”

Arthur’s lips twitched as he raised a brow. “You respectfully disagreed?” he repeated with a skeptical smirk.

Merlin dropped his head, trying to hold back a smile himself. “I told him I had a better chance of beating you than he did,” he said, and Arthur barked a laugh while Morgana beamed with pride.

“And then he hit you,” Arthur surmised.

“And then he hit me,” Merlin confirmed with a nod, shrugging as Arthur chuckled.

The blond shook his head, smiling down at the ground, but his expression soon turned serious, and Merlin knew what was on his mind as clearly as if it were being spoken.

“It’s really not that bad,” he consoled, fingertips brushing across his cheekbone. “I think it looks worse than it is. I doubt you’ll even be able to see it tomorrow.”

“But he still hit you,” Arthur countered.

Merlin opened his mouth, but any attempt at excuses would have been pointless, so he simply closed his lips again. “It’s only one more day,” he said instead. “If he’s going to try something, tomorrow is his last chance. I have to be there.”

Arthur shook his head, biting his lip. “But if he-”

“I can handle Valiant,” Merlin interjected, rolling his eyes dismissively.

“Merlin,” Morgana scoffed, “he’s twice your size! And with _his_ temper? You wouldn’t stand a chance!”

Merlin raised his eyebrows at her.

“Oh, please,” she muttered, flicking a hand at him. “You’re not offended. He’s a giant!”

Merlin bit his lip over a smile. “I appreciate your concern, my lady, but-”

“Morgana.”

Merlin’s eyebrows creased together. “My lady?”

“No,” she said, shaking her head. “Morgana, just call me Morgana.”

Merlin’s mouth moved mutely, and he looked to Arthur for help, but Arthur only lifted his eyebrows and looked away, clearly not getting involved. “With all due respect, my lady,” Merlin began hesitantly, “I would feel more comfortable if-”

“And I would feel more comfortable if you didn’t,” Morgana interrupted. “It’s all just so _formal._ I’ve been trying to get Gwen to stop for years.”

Merlin once again glanced at Arthur, but he had become deeply interested in the pattern on his dressing screen. “All the same, I don’t think-”

“Oh, honestly, Merlin,” Morgana snapped, rolling her eyes. “It’s just a name! You call him Arthur.”

“Well, yes,” Merlin admitted, “but I have no respect for _him_.” He lifted a hand in gesture toward Arthur, who dipped his head with a sly smile.

“Charming,” he muttered, wrinkling his nose at Merlin.

“I try,” Merlin chirped back, flicking his eyebrows in taunt.

Arthur snorted, shaking his head incredulously, but whatever he was opening his mouth to say was cut off by Morgana’s nauseous groan.

“You two,” she said, looking between them as she shook her head, face wrinkled with disgust.

“What?” Merlin said, the question echoed in Arthur’s voice, and he looked to find Arthur’s eyes shifting to him, getting both of them smiling before they turned back to Morgana.

Morgana rolled her eyes with an exasperated sigh, dress spinning around her legs as she twisted toward the door. “I’ll see you tomorrow. And _you_!” she scolded, poking Merlin in the chest with an impossibly sharp finger. “Be careful! I’d rather not have to disembowel anyone tomorrow.” She then floated past him, a terrifying angel draped in green and gold, and swooped around the door, closing it with an impressive thud.

“Does she mean Valiant or us?” Merlin asked as Arthur’s boots clicked to his side.

Arthur clapped a hand on his shoulder. “How about you just be careful, and we won’t have to find out?”

Merlin chuckled, and Arthur’s hand slipped from his arm as the man moved in front of him.

“Really, though, Merlin,” he said, a crease of worry forming between his earnest eyes. “Do be careful.”

Merlin smiled softly. “I will,” he assured, nodding. “And, hey, if all else fails,” he continued with a shrug, “I think I could probably outrun him.”

Arthur blinked, growing still for a moment, and then laughed, dropping his head to shake it at the ground before giving Merlin’s shoulder a push. “Idiot,” he muttered, beginning to move back toward his desk. “Get some sleep. We have an early start tomorrow.”

Merlin bowed his head. “Yes, Sire,” he said, and headed to the door. He stopped short of closing it, however, pushing his head back into the room. “Goodnight,” he bade, smiling when Arthur looked back.

Arthur returned it with a small nod. “Goodnight, Merlin,” he replied.

Merlin had to bite his lip around a grin all the way back to Gaius’ chambers.

\---

“No!” Arthur barked, twisting away from the fingers fumbling at his arm. “Now it’s too tight! You’re doing a buckle, not tying a tourniquet!”

“Sorry, Sire,” George murmured, ducking his head and returning to the fastening, fingers shaking over the metal.

Arthur rolled his eyes, turning his face to stare at the opposite wall of the tent, the direction in which he knew the arena was waiting, slowly filling with people ready to watch the final. He wasn’t worried, not really. He knew his skill was superior to Valiant’s, but Valiant hadn’t had the best reputation for fair play throughout the tournament, and Arthur was going to have to keep both eyes open if he wanted to remain unscathed. And he was going to need his armor to be properly attached, which his substitute servant, George, seemed to have made his personal mission to ruin.

“It’s in the wrong spot; move it up! What are you even _doing_ down there!?”

“It’s alright, George.”

Arthur’s neck cracked as he turned to the tent’s entrance, where a familiar silhouette stood backlit in the opening.

Merlin dropped the tent flap, his features visible now without the blinding sunlight, and he smiled at Arthur as he approached. “I can take it from here.”

George sighed in obvious relief, cowering when Arthur glared at him. “Sire?” George asked, not able to meet his eyes.

Arthur nodded. “You’re excused,” he said, and the flap was fluttering with his exit before Arthur could so much as blink.

“Wow,” Merlin chuckled, turning to stare after the man, “you sure scared him off.”

“Just as well,” Arthur muttered, shifting in his loose, rattling armor, “he was incompetent.”

“You loved him the other day,” Merlin replied, grinning as Arthur narrowed his eyes. “What was it you said?”

“I can’t recall.”

“Oh, that’s right! ‘George brought me the best breakfast, Merlin. George polished my keys, Merlin. George tucked me in and sang me to sleep, Merlin.’”

“He did _not_ tuck me in!”

“So there _was_ singing, then?” Merlin teased, lifting his eyebrows as he reached Arthur’s side. “I thought I heard something.”

“Are you going to help me or not?” Arthur snapped, holding an arm out, and Merlin smirked as he took it, cradling Arthur’s arm with one hand while the other undid the buckle George had been trying to massacre.

“So,” he said, working his way up Arthur’s arm to his shoulder, “how are you feeling?”

“How am I feeling?” Arthur echoed, turning his head to where Merlin was hovering just behind his shoulder.

“Stop moving,” Merlin scolded, pushing at his neck to force his face front again. “And, yeah, about the final,” Merlin clarified, small clinks of metal drifting up to Arthur’s ears as the panels of his armor slowly shifted into place. “How are you feeling?”

“Fine,” Arthur answered, not knowing quite where to look while the person he was speaking with was behind him.

“Valiant seems nervous,” Merlin said as he moved across Arthur’s back. “He wasn’t shouting as much, at least.” He flicked his eyes up from his work to give Arthur a small smile as he started on the right shoulder.

Arthur opened his mouth to reply, but the words were stalled by an involuntary shiver that shot down from his neck where Merlin’s cold fingers brushed his skin.

“Sorry,” Merlin murmured, his breath warming over the spot.

“It’s fine,” Arthur assured, forgetting his orders as he turned to follow Merlin’s voice, and was startled to find how close he was, blue eyes widening barely a hand’s length from Arthur’s own. Arthur released a breath, Merlin’s eyelashes fluttering with it, and then the brunette made a small, strangled sound and pulled away, tugging at the buckles down Arthur’s right arm.

“I think you’re good,” he muttered, eyes scanning over Arthur’s body, lingering on the various fasteners.

Arthur cleared his throat. “Good,” he grunted with a curt nod, “that’s- Yeah, good. Can you grab the-”

“Sure,” Merlin clipped in response, darting away to the table where Arthur’s colors and sword were placed. “Do you want me to-”

“No, I can do it,” Arthur interrupted, holding out a hand to take the tunic from Merlin. He hastily tugged it on, arranging it over his armor before he added the sword and belt. He fiddled with it more than necessary, buying time before he had to turn back to the conversation, not yet having anything to say.

He didn’t know what it was, but something about Merlin always made him feel…unbalanced. He was at ease in every other area of his life, with the possible exception of dealing with Morgana, but all Merlin had to do was flash a smile at an odd moment, and Arthur’s tongue stuck in his mouth.

“Well,” Merlin said, smiling uncertainly, “I guess I’ll see you out there.”

“What?” Arthur murmured, the words taking a moment to sink in. “Oh, right, yeah. I’ll, er, be out in a bit.”

Merlin nodded, turning his back. “Oh, I almost forgot,” he said suddenly, stopping at the tent’s exit. “I, er…brought you something.” He lifted a shoulder in a half-shrug, fishing a hand in the pocket of his coat as he returned. “It’s kind of stupid, but-” He faded away, stretching an arm out, and Arthur saw a tail of red fabric dangling from Merlin’s loose fist. “I just…thought you might want to have it back,” he murmured.

Arthur opened his hand, letting Merlin wind the torn strip from Arthur’s tunic down into his palm. It had been cleaned, the color a little duller from what was no doubt a vigorous scrubbing to remove Merlin’s blood, but it was clearly still Pendragon red, and Arthur slowly curled his fingers down to brush over the threads.

“And, you know, I didn’t lose my arm,” Merlin blurted, movements jerky as he lifted a hand to the back of his neck, “so maybe there’s still a bit of luck in it for you.” He scratched at the juncture of his neck, catching on the red cloth tied around his throat.

“I-” Arthur started, but it was less a word than a breath with tone.

“You don’t have to keep it,” Merlin continued muttering, “but it’s yours, so…yeah.” He swallowed, cracking his fingers in front of him as he backed away. “I’ll, um, see you after. Well, probably not _right_ after, because I’ll have to help Valiant out of his armor, mop up the blood and whatnot”—he let out a stunted chuckle—“but, um, after that. After the after.” He puffed out a breath at the ground, chest deflating as his shoulders bobbed. “Good luck,” he said, suddenly formal, and he snapped a stiff nod before vanishing back into the light.

Arthur stared at the vacant air for a moment before dropping his eyes to the strip of cloth in his hand. He lifted it up toward his face, fingers brushing idly over the surface, as if just to assure himself it was there, that any of that had really happened.

Merlin probably hadn’t _meant_ to give him a favor, not likely having enough experience with formal events and customs to even know what a favor was, but the gesture still warmed Arthur, and he smiled down at the red cloth as his fingers tightened over it.

“My lord,” a voice called, Leon’s head appearing through the entrance a moment later. “It’s time.”

Arthur looked up, and then dropped his eyes again. “Coming,” he replied, hastily knotting the strip of cloth around his belt as he followed Leon toward the arena.

\---

It had been hours, and Merlin’s pulse still hadn’t returned to normal. He had spent the entire final round of the tournament torn between terror Valiant would unleash some magical horror, and giddy excitement that Arthur was wearing the scrap of tunic on his belt, but either way, he had been having an anxiety attack.

Arthur had won, of course, and Valiant hadn’t done anything but throw his sword in frustration, but that had Merlin even _more_ nervous. If all Valiant’s conniving hadn’t been about defeating Arthur in the tournament, what _was_ his plan? Merlin couldn’t shake the uneasy feeling he had about Valiant’s conversation with Uther, this nagging in the back of his mind that he was missing something important. His magic didn’t like it either, spiking and lunging out at unexpected moments, and he’d had to look confused over far too many slamming doors and shattered glasses for his liking. He wanted to talk to Kilgharrah, wanted to know if what he was sensing was accurate, if Valiant posed a threat to his mission as well as to Arthur, but he hadn’t had any time with Valiant running him all over the place out of spite.

“Fetch me that box, boy,” he barked, boot colliding with Merlin’s shin as he passed where Merlin was oiling his armor on the floor.

Merlin bit his cheek, tossing the rag aside as he rose to his feet, back snapping with the stretch. He walked across the room to the desk Valiant had indicated, grabbing the wooden box off the surface and moving it to the table the knight had moved to stand beside.

“And that rag,” he snapped, pointing down to Merlin’s abandoned polishing, and Merlin turned back, swiping up the cloth and tossing it onto the table.

“Anything else, my lord?” Merlin deadpanned, crossing his arms.

Valiant smirked, leaning his hip against the edge of the table. “Eager to get back to Arthur?”

“Prince.”

Valiant’s eyebrows twitched. “What?”

“It’s _Prince_ Arthur,” Merlin snapped.

Dark eyes flashed, and Valiant pushed up from the table, sneering as he moved forward. “You think you’re so special, don’t you?” he taunted, stalking closer, and Merlin felt his magic lurch in his blood. “The prince’s little favorite.” He scoffed, scanning Merlin up and down, smirk growing as Merlin stepped back. “Bit small for my taste,” he added, and Merlin’s fists clenched, “but to each their own.” He laughed and turned back to the table, opening the top of the box, and then hissed in pain, pulling his hand back from the wood.

Merlin ducked his head, giving the gold in his eyes a moment to dissolve while Valiant cursed at the splinter in his index finger. When he lifted his face again, Valiant was plucking at the shard of wood, thick, dirty fingers fumbling at the delicate piece.

“Get those out,” he snarled, waving his uninjured hand at the contents of the box before moving across the room toward his bags.

Merlin bowed his head, angling his body away from where Valiant from rummaging in his pack so his smirk could go unnoticed. The box was heavy wood, intricate carvings laced around the exterior, and the inside was draped with blue velvet, a piece laying over the top. Peeling it back, Merlin revealed two, silver goblets, slightly tarnished, but a large, embossed crest was still clearly visible: three, intertwining serpents.

“A token for the victor,” Valiant said at his shoulder, and Merlin jumped at the sudden proximity. The man reached forward, removing the smaller goblet from the case. He lifted it into the air, quirking his head with a smug lilt of his brows. “Long may he reign,” he drawled, and a chill ran through Merlin as Valiant slowly grinned, eyes never moving from Merlin’s. “Go,” he muttered, waving his free hand in dismissal. “Find your prince. He probably needs a good rub down after the fight.” He laughed, bashing a hand into Merlin’s back and laughing even harder as Merlin buckled.

Glaring, Merlin rattled himself loose from Valiant’s touch, nails digging into his palms as he stormed from the room, slamming the door in his wake, but the man’s guffaws echoed after him, chasing him down the stone corridor. He could feel his magic burning in his veins, and he blinked down at the ground, trying to clear what he knew was in his eyes. His breaths were hissing through his teeth, arms shaking with tension, and he knew he couldn’t hold it in for long. Ducking into a staircase, he collapsed against the stone, one hand gripping into the cold surface while the other lifted to his face. He panted into his palm through bared teeth, his whole body trembling, but it was no use, and he let out a sharp gasp as he felt his magic leap from him.

A thunderous crash echoed in the corridor, and he knew instinctively it was one of the suits of armor on display, pieces bouncing over the floor with metallic crashes and rings. He heard a few startled shouts, footsteps rushing toward the scene, and took off up the stairs, bounding several steps at a time.

“Merlin?”

He stopped, stumbling and catching himself on the carved edge of a window.

“What was that sound?” Gwen asked, peering out of a door that led to the third level of the castle, her eyes glancing up and down the staircase.

“I-I don’t know,” Merlin lied, voice still a little shaky, but hopefully Gwen would contribute it to his running. “I think it was downstairs.”

Gwen hummed, nodding as she looked back the way Merlin had come. “I suppose they’ll tell us if it’s something important. Are you done with Valiant, then?” she asked, eyes turning critical as she searched his face.

“Yeah,” Merlin answered, forcing himself to smile. “I was just heading up to Arthur.”

“Oh, he was brilliant, wasn’t he?” Gwen gushed, leaning forward to place a hand on his arm. “The way he dodged that one jab? Oh, and when Valiant tried to kick dirt in his face? He wasn’t fooled for a second!”

Merlin could genuinely smile at that. “It was quite impressive,” he agreed, not wanting to get _too_ complimentary, lest it get back to Arthur. He’d never hear the end of it.

“Do you know whose favor he had?”

Merlin choked, coughing into a fist. “Sorry?”

“The red ribbon. On his belt,” Gwen expanded, waving a hand over her right hip.

“I-I don’t know,” Merlin murmured, swallowing. “I didn’t see him before he went out.”

“Morgana said she saw you leaving his tent just before the final.”

Merlin opened his mouth, throat creaking around almost-words. “No,” he squeaked, shaking his head. “Must have been someone else. I should go.”

“Merlin?” Gwen said warningly, eyes narrowing with suspicion.

“Got to prepare for the feast.”

“Merlin!?”

“Sorry, Gwen!” he called over his shoulder with a shrug. “Boots to oil, buttons to polish…”

“MERLIN!?”

“See you down there!” he shouted, and, if she said anything else, his hurried footfalls drowned it out. He was going to pay for that later—probably in the form of Morgana threatening the truth out of him with a knife to his more sensitive areas—but, right now, all he wanted was to get this feast over with, and get Valiant out of their hair.

“Finally!” Arthur barked when he entered, standing up from the table. “I was beginning to think I’d have to dress myself!”

Merlin chuckled, something instantly easing in him with Arthur’s presence. “I would never allow that to happen, Sire,” he assured, laying a solemn hand over his heart. “It would reflect very poorly on me if you showed up to the feast naked.”

“Why do you think I can’t dress myself!?” Arthur blared, and Merlin didn’t stop laughing until he ran out of air.

The feasts, however, were getting much less entertaining. Where Merlin had first been enchanted by the grandeur, the spectacles were now turning into nothing but more work, and all he could see were goblets he’d later be polishing and stains that would have to be removed.

“It’s not even half over,” Arthur whispered, barely turning his head as Merlin refilled his wine. “How can you possibly be bored?”

“It’s alright for you; you get to sit down and drink all night,” Merlin hissed back, moving his lips as little as possible.

“At least you don’t have to listen to Geoffrey,” Arthur retorted, head bobbing to the left, where the elderly man was currently deep in drunken discussion with Uther.

“I _do_ have to listen to him,” Merlin muttered, glowering. “I just don’t get to be drunk while I do it.”

Arthur coughed into his goblet, clearing his throat as he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

“Arthur?” the king inquired, turning at the commotion, and Merlin snapped his back straight.

Arthur waved a hand, shaking his head. “Fine, I’m-I’m fine, just…swallowed wrong.”

Merlin kept his face impassive as Uther looked between them, but had to suck his lips flat when Arthur turned, flicking a guilty grimace up at him. He moved away from the head table, leaving his pitcher of wine with a kitchen maid as he went on a run for more candles. Halfway there, however, he ran into a pale, frantic Gwen.

“Oh, Merlin, thank god!” she panted, latching onto his arms. “I’ve been looking everywhere! When you weren’t at the feast, I-”

“Woah, slow down,” he eased, bowing his head down toward her. “What’s wrong?”

Gwen swallowed, eyes scanning side to side before she spoke in a hushed, earnest whisper. “It’s Morgana, she-she’s having one of her nightmares, thrashing about, muttering to herself. I can’t wake her!”

Cold fear swept through Merlin, his eyes widening, but he spoke calmly for Gwen’s sake. “Did you call for Gaius?”

“I can’t!” Gwen insisted desperately. “I’m not supposed to let anyone know; I have to find him myself! I only came looking for you because she called for you.”

Merlin’s forehead creased, and he paused for a moment, waiting for footsteps to his right to fade away. “What do you mean she called for me? What did she say?”

Gwen was breathing heavily, body quivering in Merlin’s arms as her head rattled. “I-I don’t know, she was just _screaming_ and- and there was something about a-a snake.”

“A snake?”

Gwen nodded, tears shining in her eyes as her voice cracked. “Yes, snakes. Silver snakes.”

Merlin’s stomach lurched, the entire castle seeming to grind to a stop around him, and he felt a lightning chill race up his spine. “Oh my god,” he breathed, meeting Gwen’s fearful gaze. “Arthur.”

“Arthur?” Gwen echoed, but Merlin was already gone, running back toward the hall, his blood pounding in his ears.

He could hear Gwen begin to run behind him, her shoes clattering down the stairs, but he was leaping them several at a time, his magic steadying him. He had been so stupid, _so_ stupid! Valiant had practically _told_ him, and he’d missed it! And now Arthur could be- He rattled his head, shaking loose the thought, because he couldn’t be too late, he _couldn’t_ be. He wasn’t ready, not yet. He couldn’t lose him yet.

He burst back into the hall, startling several servants gathered near the doorway, the entire staff hovering at the fringes, the room gone silent save a single voice.

“-in gratitude of your continued hospitality,” Valiant was saying, silver goblet extended in a gloved hand, “and to honor a battle well-won.”

Arthur smiled with obligatory politeness, bowing his head as he lifted an arm toward the cup.

“NO!” Merlin roared, elbowing out from the servant’s ranks.

The whole room whipped toward him, but he watched only Arthur, whose mouth opened with alarm as Merlin raced to his side.

“Merlin?”

“It’s poisoned,” he panted, looking to the offered drink. “Valiant poisoned the goblet.”

Arthur’s eyes widened, and he looked to the cup, expression darkening as he lifted his gaze to Valiant beyond it.

Valiant only laughed. “Poisoned?” he scoffed. “That’s ridiculous! How dare you accuse me of such a thing?”

“Yes,” Uther snarled, moving forward to stand at Arthur’s shoulder. “How dare you? Slandering such a noble knight. I should have your head!”

“Father, please,” Arthur interjected, half turning back, a buffer between the seething king and Merlin. “I’m sure Merlin is just overtired. Or perhaps got a bit enthusiastic with the wine.”

“I’m not-”

“Merlin,” Arthur snapped in warning, expression firm, and Merlin faltered, lips trembling in silence. Arthur looked back to Valiant. “I apologize, sir knight,” he said evenly, and Valiant bowed in acknowledgement. “I would, of course, be happy to accept-”

Merlin’s throat unstuck. “No!” he bleated, diving through the gap between them, grabbing the goblet on his way past, wine slopping over the sides.

“Merlin!” Arthur barked, but Merlin shook his head.

“No, he poisoned it!” he argued, jolting the near-empty goblet toward Valiant. “I know he did! He- He-” Merlin lost the words, distracted by a strange sensation creeping up his arm. Looking down, he saw the silver goblet clutched in his hand, which was shaking slightly, a tingling numbness beginning to spread through the limb. In the shifting light, his eyes caught a slight sheen on the metal, and he gasped, a dark conclusion forming in his mind. The cup clattered to the floor, his weak fingers no longer able to hold it, and, as he looked up, breaths growing labored as the numbness spread across his chest, he saw a corner of Valiant’s mouth lift in a smirk.

“Merlin?”

He shifted his eyes to Arthur, blinking to keep his frightened face in focus. A spasm of pain ripped through his heart, and he clutched over it with a pitched gasp, staggering back as his legs began to rattle.

“MERLIN!”

The room swooped in an arch as he fell to the ground, heart thumping erratically in his chest, and he could hear his rapid, wheezing breaths, too short and sharp to do any good.

“Merlin!? Merlin, look at me!”

The world shifted again, his limp body tugged by groping arms until blue eyes appeared, set below a halo of gold.

“Stay awake; you have to stay awake! Merlin? Merlin!”

Black swirled around the edges of Arthur’s face, and Merlin didn’t even have time to apologize for disobeying the order before the darkness swallowed him entirely.

\---

“Merlin? Merlin!” Arthur shook him, rattling the body in his arms, but Merlin’s eyes remained closed, his head lolling limp like a child’s toy. “Where’s Gaius?” he shouted to the room at large, everyone gathering around them like a spectacle from one of their beloved travelling caravans. “Where is he!? DO SOMETHING, YOU FOOLS!”

The bleary-eyed nobles burst into activity at the admonishment, muttering apologies as they bumbled into one another in their haste to be of use, and Arthur was glad to see Leon push through the crowd, kneeling at his side.

“Valiant has been restrained, my lord, and Guinevere has gone to look for Gaius.”

Arthur nodded, the tone of the assurance registering more than the actual content. He looked down Merlin’s body, watching the trembling rise and fall of his chest with mounting dread, and then his glance was pulled away, catching on something glinting in Merlin’s palm. Carefully, he turned the pale wrist, lifting the boy’s—too cold, too still—hand for examination. A thin film of liquid shone in the candlelight, and Merlin’s arm shook in Arthur’s grip as his own quivered.

“The goblet,” he said, swallowing to clear the breathlessness as he lowered Merlin’s limb to the stone. “Get the goblet, but don’t let it touch your skin! I think the surface was coated in something.”

Leon’s eyes widened. “Then, Sire…if you had touched it-”

“I know,” Arthur clipped, staring down at his own, bare hand on Merlin’s sluggishly shifting chest. “I know.” He saw Leon nod from the edge of his vision, rising in a blur of silver and red as he moved in the direction of the fallen cup.

“Arthur!” his father’s urgent voice hissed from overhead. “Get away from him! You don’t know what this is! If any of the poison is transferred to you-”

“Then it will have found its intended target,” Arthur grit out, fingers gripping into Merlin’s tunic with the effort of controlling his voice. “He saved my life; I will not simply abandon him.”

“He’s a _servant_!” Uther scoffed, hand swinging into view as he gestured down at Merlin. “There are hundreds more to take his place.”

“And how many would do this?” Arthur spat, twisting to meet his father’s gaze as he gently shook Merlin’s body in illustration. “How many would _dare_ speak out? How many would save my life at risk of their own _head_!?” It was as close to a direct confrontation as he had ever come with his father, in spite of the hundreds of times he had disagreed, but he couldn’t bring himself to regret it, not even as Uther’s eyes flashed and narrowed in dangerous recognition.

“You-”

“Let me through! LET ME THROUGH!”

They both turned toward the voice, and then Uther dropped a glare to Arthur, a promise that the price for his insolence had yet to be paid, before stalking away in a swirl of his cloak just as Gaius burst through the knights surrounding them.

His green eyes were wild with panic as they landed on Arthur, travelling down his arms to where Merlin lay within them. Fear creased over his features, and Arthur felt its grip tighten on his own heart as Gaius knelt to the ground beside him. “What happened?” he snapped, voice short with restraint, but Arthur saw his hands were shaking as he pressed at Merlin’s neck.

“The goblet, it was covered in poison,” he explained, gut roiling with guilt. “There’s still some on his hand. Left palm.”

Gaius carefully pulled up Merlin’s sleeve, lifting the contaminated hand by the forearm. He narrowed his eyes at the skin, turning it this way and that in the light, and then bowed his head, nostrils flaring over the dampness.

Arthur watched, the arm wrapped around Merlin’s back stiffening as he held his breath.

“Aconite,” Gaius whispered, face frowned in worry. “We must get him to my chambers,” he said, hurriedly removing his robe and draping it over Merlin, taking care to wrap the tainted hand in a sleeve. “Quickly.”

 “Sire,” Lancelot beseeched as he bent low over him, “I can-”

“I have him,” Arthur snapped, balancing in a crouch before hoisting Merlin up with him.

Merlin moaned weakly, turning his head into Arthur’s chest, sheen of sweat growing on his forehead, and Arthur’s arms tightened protectively.

“I have him,” he repeated as they began to move, and the wrinkle between Merlin’s brows eased, but his breathing was growing fainter, and Arthur lifted him a bit higher so the sound still reached his ears.

Gaius shouted and snarled through the corridors, clearing a path as they rushed to his chambers, where the man waved toward a cot near the center of the room. “Put him down there,” he ordered, and Arthur obliged, gingerly lowering Merlin onto the straw mattress.

Merlin shifted with a whine, hair beginning to stick to his forehead as he panted, and Arthur turned away, pacing while Gaius perched on a nearby stool to continue his examination.

He couldn’t stop looking, however, stealing glances over his shoulder, and he froze when he saw Gaius sigh, bowing his head as he pressed a hand to Merlin’s chest. “What?” he asked tremulously. “What is it?”

Gaius didn’t answer, didn’t move except to brush a strand of damp hair from Merlin’s furrowed brow.

“Gaius?” Arthur pressed, stepping to the man’s shoulder.

The physician let out a shaky breath, bracing himself with the edge of the cot as he stood and turned to Arthur. “Aconite is...an extremely lethal poison, Sire,” he said softly, eye contact wavering. “Even absorbed through the skin, its effects are quick. I-I’m afraid-”

“No,” Arthur muttered, shaking his head. “No, there has to be something you can do.”

Gaius dropped his face, turning back to look past his shoulder at Merlin. “I can try to slow it down, make him as comfortable as possible, but”—he sucked in a breath, swallowing hard before looking up again at Arthur—“I’m afraid there is no cure.”

Arthur took a step back, head continuing to rattle in disbelief as he looked between Gaius and the boy behind him, Merlin’s dark eyelashes twitching against his ever-paling cheeks. “No. No! There’s got to be something, a-a tonic or-or an herb.”

Gaius looked up from the tops of his eyes, the horrible answer written in his gaze.

Arthur’s mouth trembled as he breathed, and he had to look away, turning around to run a hand through his hair. He then placed his hands on his hips, dropping his head to breathe deeply at the floor, trying to clear the cloud of panic and guilt from his mind long enough to think, to plan, because there had to be a solution, there was _always_ a solution if you were brave enough, strong enough, or stupid enough.

He blinked, lips popping apart as his eyes widened at the ground. “Gaius,” he said, breathless as he spun back, “is there _anything_ you can do?”

Gaius tilted his head, the wrinkles in his forehead deepening. “Sire, I-”

“ _Anything_ ,” Arthur repeated, gripping Gaius’ shoulders as he lowered his voice. “Anything at all.”

Gaius opened his mouth, confusion written plainly on his face, and then he froze, eyes widening. “My lord, you-you can’t-”

“I can, and I will,” Arthur said, unyielding, his fingers tightening over the physician’s tunic. “Just tell me, Gaius.” He looked desperately between the man’s eyes, trying to make him understand, make him see. “Tell me what it will take, and I’ll do it.”

Gaius stared at him, head shaking in a daze. “Your Highness, your…your father-”

“I don’t _care_ about my father!” Arthur snarled, releasing his grip and stepping past the gaping elder. “That poison was meant for me, Gaius. Me! And I will _not_ let him die because of it!” He pointed down to Merlin, arm shaking, but his voice was steady. “Now, tell me what to do.”

It seemed like an eternity before Gaius moved, his face fluctuating through expression too fast for Arthur to interpret as his eyes shifted between them. “There is a rumor of a man,” he finally began, soft and hesitant, and Arthur barely managed not to collapse with relief. “It is said he lives in the woods to the west, appearing only to those who seek with a pure heart.”

“A pure heart?” Arthur repeated, his insides twisting as every horrible thing he had ever done flashed through his mind. “Can’t you do something here? Some… _spell_ or something?” he muttered, unable to stop the grimace from curling his face at the word.

Gaius’ eyes twitched, as if in offense, but it cleared quickly. “No, Sire. As you know, I no longer practice magic, and Merlin’s condition is delicate. I would likely do more harm than good.”

Arthur sighed, frustrated, biting his lip as he dropped his eyes to his shoes, but then Merlin whimpered from the cot, fingers twitching over Gaius’ robe still wrapped around him, and Arthur squared his jaw. “How do I find him?”

Gaius’ shoulders lowered, a soft breath passing through his nose. “If the stories are to be believed,” he said with a small tilt of his head, “you ride west, and he will find _you_.”

Arthur swallowed, the reality of his decision thickening in his throat, but there was no doubt. “How long?” he asked, not able to form the question any more specifically than that.

Gaius bowed his head, folding his arms in front of him. “A day, two at the most.”

Arthur couldn’t breathe. “Is that- Will it-” He closed his mouth helplessly.

Gaius nodded, understanding. “I believe so, Sire,” he answered, “but you must not delay.”

“Right,” he murmured, nodding, his mind travelling ahead to planning as opposed to dwelling on the time he could already feel slipping away. “Of course, I- I’ll leave at first light.” He looked past Gaius—who was bowing his head—to Merlin, and the pale lips quivering over slow, rattling breaths were all the assurance Arthur needed.

“Arthur!”

He turned toward the door, thin arms wrapping around his neck as fragrant, dark hair fell over his face.

“Thank god!” Morgana breathed into his shoulder, fingers scrabbling at his back. “I thought-” She stilled, and he knew, placing his hands over hers to steady her as he pulled away. “No,” she whispered, eyes wide and head shaking as her hands twisted to grip at Arthur’s forearms for support. “No, I-I saw- Merlin,” she squeaked, and then swallowed, green eyes beginning to glisten. “Is- Is he-”

Arthur shook his head, pulling her two hands together in his. “He’s alive,” he said, and Morgana nearly collapsed with a wracking gasp. A small, whimpering sound drew his attention up, and he realized Morgana had not entered alone.

Leon stood in the doorway, face almost remote, but Arthur knew him too well for that, and the tightness around his eyes gave away his concern. Lancelot was just in front, arm around a quivering Gwen, who had her hands clasped over her mouth.

“Oh, god,” she choked, lowering her fingers to her chin as she shook her head. “Merlin! Gaius- Gaius, what-” The sentence shattered into a strangled breath, her face contorting in agony before she ducked it to the ground, hand lifting back to her lips.

“Merlin has been poisoned,” Gaius answered gravely, and everyone but Arthur looked to the physician. “Valiant contaminated a drinking goblet with aconite. It was intended for Arthur,” he explained, nodding toward the prince, and Arthur felt Morgana’s fingers tighten sympathetically on his arms, “but Merlin intercepted it.”

Arthur bit hard at the inside of his cheek, avoiding the five pairs of eyes he could feel burning into him from every direction.

“There is a cure,” the physician continued, and Arthur snapped his head up while the others side with relief, heart stuttering with fear, but Gaius gave him a small reassuring glance before continuing. “A flower that possesses properties known to reverse the effects. It is very rare, however, and only grows some distance from here.” Here, he paused, passing a meaningful nod to Arthur. “I believe it is the prince’s intention to journey there at first light.”

Silence followed, and Arthur was grateful, the few shocked seconds necessary for him to wrap his head around the lie. “Er, yes,” he murmured, able to meet everyone’s eyes but Morgana’s. “I should be back within the day.”

“Sire,” Leon interjected, stepping out from behind the group, “that may be a problem.”

“What?” Arthur questioned, releasing Morgana’s hands. “Why?”

Leon opened his mouth, silent for a moment as his eyes darted nervously. “The king,” he muttered. “He has ordered you confined to your chambers.”

Arthur blinked, the air in his lungs seeming to frost. “What?”

“He sent knights to your chambers,” Leon continued, stepping forward, and Arthur’s fists began to shake, “but I came here first. They’re ordered to stay posted outside your door until-” He stopped, eyes trailing past Arthur, who winced at what was left unspoken.

“No,” Morgana gasped, horrified. “He wouldn’t. He-”

“Morgana,” Arthur warned, but he knew she was too far gone to stop.

“He can’t do that!” she shrieked, teeth flashing beneath red lips. “He can’t lock you up like some sort of _prisoner_! And keeping you away from Merlin? _Now_!?”

“Morgana!”

“It’s wrong! _He’s_ wrong! He-”

“MORGANA!” Arthur exclaimed, hearing heavy, armored footsteps pounding down the corridor toward them.

Morgana looked ready to slap him, her arm actually twitching, but then seemed to notice the incoming company, her head lifting to the door.

Everyone moved away from the entrance, Gwen moving to Morgana’s side while Leon and Lancelot formed an apparently unconscious barrier in front of Arthur. A small group of knights burst through the door, hands readied at the hilts of their swords, and a wry smile twitched at Arthur’s lips.

“Gentlemen,” he greeted with a bob of his eyebrows as he looked over the group.

Leon coughed over a snort beside him.

“I appreciate your dedication,” Arthur continued, edging his way forward between the taller men at his side, “but, as you can surely see, the threat to _my_ life has passed.”

One of the knights near the front—Sir Carlisle, he thought, but he never had bothered to get to know the ones more loyal to his father—stepped forward, clearing his throat with shifting eyes. “Your Highness, we have orders from the king to escort you back to your rooms.”

“Escort me?” Arthur parroted, tilting his head in mock confusion. “Is there some further danger I should be aware of?”

Sir Carlisle turned his head, looking back between the other knights for help. “Well, no, Sire, but-”

“No more of my father’s friends trying to poison me?”

“Sire,” Lancelot hissed.

Arthur glared up out of the corners of his eyes, but then bit his lip and turned back to the knights.

“No, Sire,” Carlisle replied, increasingly uncomfortable, “but the king’s orders are to remand you to your rooms until the boy expires.”

Arthur’s knuckles cracked into a fist, but Lancelot moved first, shifting forward toward the squirrely man.

“Merlin,” he spat, arms shaking at his sides. “His _name_ is Merlin.”

“Lancelot,” Arthur eased, their roles reversing as he placed a hand on the man’s thick forearm.

Lancelot stood firm a moment, breathing in huffs, and then the tension in his body eased, and he stepped back to Arthur’s side once again. “My apologies, Sire,” he muttered, and an idea occurred to Arthur, a slim chance.

“See me in my chambers later,” he barked, attempting to scold, and Lancelot snapped a surprised look down at him before mellowing into something like suspicion.

He nodded. “Yes, Sire.”

Arthur flashed a glance at Leon, perfectly impassively, and then turned to Morgana and Gwen. He opened his mouth, but Morgana headed him off.

“We’ll stay with him,” she assured, taking Gwen’s hand. “We will send someone to you if there is any change.”

Arthur looked between them in wordless thanks, and then moved toward the door. “If I may,” he snapped, jerking his arm away from a knight who made to take it, “I believe I can walk myself to my chambers.”

The knight bowed his head, stepping back with a blush. “Of-Of course, Sire. Sorry, Sire.”

They did not stray far, however, and he was surrounded the entire way back to his rooms as he made certain to glare at each of them in turn.

“Your Highness,” Carlisle said with a bow as they arrived, pushing open the door. “Two guards will be stationed outside, should you need anything.”

“Meaning I’m not permitted to get anything myself,” Arthur filled in, and Carlisle—evidently not an entirely lost cause—bowed his head in embarrassed acknowledgement. “Thank you,” he bade mechanically, official nod and all.

Carlisle returned it, and then backed away, leaving Arthur to brush past through the door.

The second he was on the other side, he closed it with childish vigor, snarling as he paced up and down the length of the room. The knights posted outside complicated matters—quite a bit more than complicated, if he were being honest—but Arthur Pendragon was nothing if not stubborn, and, by the time Lancelot knocked, he had a plan already formed.

“You asked for me, Sire?” Lancelot said, and he looked a little nervous, in spite of how obvious Arthur thought he had made the ruse.

“Yes, Lancelot, come in. Close the door.”

The knight obeyed, and came to stand in front of Arthur at the end of the table, far enough from the door to avoid being overheard.

“Lancelot, I need to know,” Arthur began, talking softly. “How much do you care for Merlin?”

Lancelot blinked, frowning. “My lord?”

“It’s not a trick question,” Arthur meant to assure, but really more snapped. “How much do you care for him.”

Lancelot shifted on his feet, eyes dancing aimlessly around the room before resting back on Arthur. “Truthfully, Sire?” he asked, brow lifting.

“I would not ask otherwise,” Arthur confirmed with a nod.

Lancelot’s spine straightened, and his voice rang solemn as an oath. “More than my own life.”

Arthur smiled, dropping his face to their boots for a moment. “Enough for treason, then?”

“Yes, Your Highness,” Lancelot replied, hiding his own, small smile. “Plenty enough for that.”

“Good,” Arthur said, and Lancelot let out a breath. “Ready a horse; we leave at nightfall.”

Lancelot clicked his feet together, bending into a bow before he made toward the door.

“Lancelot?” Arthur called, holding his progress.

“Yes, Sire?”

Arthur chewed at the inside of his cheek, carefully considering the words. “If it were me, and not my father…would your answer be the same?”

Lancelot blinked, brow furrowing in concern as his mouth slowly opened.

“And just assume I want the truth,” Arthur added, and Lancelot closed his lips to chuckle down at his shoes.

“My lord,” he answered, lifting his head, “my answer would not change were I speaking against God himself.”

Arthur smiled down at the table in front of him. “Let us both hope it does not come to that,” he said with a bob of his head, “though it is a comfort to know I would have such good company in hell.”

\---

“This is madness,” Leon muttered, shaking his head as he helped Arthur ready a pack. “Absolute madness.”

“Well, I don’t exactly have many options, do I?” Arthur snapped back, wrapping the large dinner Leon was able to procure and shoving it into a bag. “I can’t leave through the _door_.”

Leon sighed, exasperated, which seemed to be his usual state when dealing with Arthur. “Yes, but the window? Really?”

“I _told_ you,” Arthur whined with a roll of his eyes. “Lancelot will drive by with the cart. Gwen filled it nearly to the top with straw; it’s perfectly safe.”

Leon lifted his eyebrows in skepticism, but said nothing, tying the top of the pack and pushing it across the table. “And what if the king wishes to see you while you’re gone?”

“Tell him I’m ill,” Arthur answered, waving a flippant hand as he held the pack at his side.

“He’ll want to see you all the more, then,” Leon countered, and Arthur groaned.

“Then tell him I’m…practicing my Latin, or-or reading poetry or something.”

“Reading poetry?”

“It could happen!” Arthur sputtered, and Leon chuckled, looking past him to the window.

“What happens if you’re caught, Sire?” he asked softly, not meeting Arthur’s eyes.

Arthur watched the wrinkles form over his friend’s forehead, gripping a hand to Leon’s shoulder. “It will be fine, Leon,” he assured, giving the man a light shake. “I never got caught when I snuck out all those times on you.”

“What do you mean, all those times?” Leon blurted, twisting as he glowered. “I thought it was only the once?”

Arthur dropped his head, lifting his eyebrows. “Leon, really,” he drawled, “I was 14. You _really_ think I was so shamed by your lecture that I didn’t try it again?”

Leon mouthed around phantom words, vague spluttering sounds drifting up from his throat.

“I’ll be back by dusk tomorrow,” Arthur settled, giving Leon’s shoulder a final clap before moving to the window ledge, the sound of hoof beats coming close across the square. He hopped up on the stone outcropping, hands gripping at the edge. “Make sure Morgana gets some sleep, and don’t let Gwen forget to eat; I know she’s done that a few times when Morgana’s been ill.”

Leon nodded, knees snapping straight as he pressed his arms to his sides.

“Oh, and, Leon?” He turned around, a final check for timing. “Don’t let him die on me.” Arthur didn’t even give him time to nod, Leon’s eyes only blinking in surprise before Arthur leaned back, rolling himself out the window. The fall was fast, too quick to even savor, and then his mouth was full of dust, straw sticking into his back and biting at his neck.

“Sire?” came Lancelot’s sharp mutter of concern.

“M’fine,” he mumbled, waving a hand up at the silhouette of Leon in the window, and the shadow bowed its shaking head in response, “just get us to the horses.” He tried to shift to sitting, but the straw was too pliable, and he only rocked a bit, bouncing with every rise and fall of the cobblestones.

“Yes, Sire,” Lancelot replied, and Arthur couldn’t check in the dark, but he glared at the back of his head just in case the man really was chuckling.

Thankfully, the trip in the cart was short-lived, Gwen having arranged for horses just beyond the western gate, and they took off into the woods, Lancelot following as Arthur led him over the familiar paths.

“Where are we going?” he shouted up as they rounded another bend, perpetually bombarded with branches they couldn’t see to dodge, but Arthur refused to slow down.

“I don’t know,” Arthur admitted, squinting as if it would finally start helping. “Gaius said the sorcerer would just sort of…find us. If our hearts were pure.”

“If our hearts were-”

“I don’t know,” he crabbed, shaking his head, “but that’s what Gaius said. That you don’t find him; he finds you.”

“And if he doesn’t, Sire?” Lancelot asked, voicing the question Arthur was too afraid to.

Arthur didn’t answer, giving the reins a sharp flick as his grip tightened.

The moon was high by the time they stopped, the terrain growing too unpredictable to navigate in the dark, and they only unpacked the bare minimum, ready to continue at first light.

Lancelot insisted on taking the first watch, but Arthur couldn’t sleep, so they sat together, Arthur lolling his head back against a tree while Lancelot carved patterns in a stick with his knife. It felt like nothing but a blink, but it was light when Arthur opened his eyes, Lancelot rattling his shoulder.

“Sire?” he beckoned, voice wavering in Arthur’s waking ears.

He turned, blinking the fog of sleep from his eyes to bring the man into focus.

“It’s time to go,” Lancelot said, smiling sympathetically, but Arthur could only groan, and they packed up and continued in silence as dawn burned its way across the sky.

A couple hours later, they stopped, walking a ways into the woods until there was a large enough path of level, grassy ground to let the horses rest and graze.

Arthur was sitting over a fallen tree, one leg bent up beside him while he sipped from his water skin, when Lancelot approached from his back.

“Your Highness-”

“No,” Arthur growled, the sentence already finished by Lancelot’s hesitant tone, but the knight continued anyway.

“If we don’t turn back soon-”

“I said _no_!” He spun on the bark, leaping off the tree to glare up at the man. “We’re not going back until we find him.”

“But, Sire,” Lancelot implored, “you said the sorcerer finds us, not the other way around. How can we possibly hope to-”

“Because we have to!” Arthur bellowed, water skin tossed to the ground as his arms flailed in fury.

Lancelot stepped back, and Arthur hated the pity in his eyes.

“Get the horses,” he snarled, swiping his skin up from the dirt and storming back toward the path.

The beginning of a word came from Arthur’s back, and then there was a loud crack, breaking off Lancelot’s voice. Arthur spun, boots kicking up dirt as he pulled his sword, and there was just enough time for his eyes to find Lancelot lying on the ground before he was thrown backward, sword soaring from his hand. He rolled to the side, anticipating a blow, and then twisted to standing, fists at the ready.

“It is not my intention to fight you, Arthur Pendragon,” an old man said from where he stood next to Lancelot’s prostrate form. “Besides, I believe _you_ were looking for _me._ ”

The man was cloaked in pale cream, an added shawl overlaying it, and a large hood draped over his pure white hair. His eyes were large, glistening blue even from this distance, and in his hand he held a tall staff, wrapped with twine where his hand clutched the wood.

Arthur watched him, eyes shifting between him and his fallen man. “Is he hurt?” he asked, nodding toward Lancelot. “Did you harm him?”

The man shook his head. “It is only a mild sleeping charm. He may awaken with a headache, but nothing more.”

Arthur narrowed his gaze. “You’re a sorcerer,” he said, and the man bowed his head. “Are you the one we’re looking for? The one no one can find without-”

“A pure heart,” the man concluded, nodding. “I am Anhora,” he announced, like it was supposed to mean something more, “guardian of the unicorns that dwell in these woods.”

“Unicorns?” Arthur echoed, and then jumped, spinning toward a sound to his right.

A glittering white horn appeared, followed slowly by a similarly glowing body, and Arthur knew without any reason that this was the unicorn he had found in the woods with Merlin weeks before. _Merlin_.

“I need your help,” he said, lowering his arms as the creature moved to Anhora’s side, snorting and tossing its head.

“I know,” Anhora replied, a single, grey eyebrow lifting, “although, you are earlier than I expected.”

Arthur frowned, and Anhora chuckled, turning to the unicorn as he stroked a hand through the mane.

“Our meeting has been foretold, as all things in life.” He smiled up softly, running a hand down the white nose of the creature as it nuzzled back into his hand. “But not for this time.”

Arthur took small steps forward, curious and, strangely, not afraid. “What do you mean?”

Anhora lifted his fingers from the unicorn, switching the staff between his hands as he brushed through the leaves toward Arthur. “I am not meant to help you yet, Arthur Pendragon. Not until you are united with your destiny.”

“My destiny?” Arthur chuckled, not quite sure what else to do, but it choked away as Anhora nodded.

“The sorcerer Emrys,” the man supplied, and Arthur’s heart skipped before pounding. “Together, he and the Once and Future King will come to me, seeking my aid. You”—he nodded toward him—“are the Once and Future King, and Emrys is your destiny.

Arthur blinked, head spinning, and he shook it to unstick his words. “No, there’s- there’s been some sort of…misunderstanding. I’m not this…Once and Future King,” he explained, waving a hand through the air at the lofty title. “I don’t know any Emrys.”

“You are,” Anhora said lightly, eyes twinkling as he smiled, “and you will. And together you will bring about the glory of Albion, uniting the worlds of man and magic once more.”

If Arthur hadn’t been sure before, he was now _positive_ Anhora was mad, considering he had no intention of working with sorcerers to bring back magic, and he didn’t have time to be wasting on the delusions of an old man. “Look, I’m not him, alright?” Arthur snapped. “I’m not your king, and I don’t know any sorcerers. I’m only here because-”

“You need my help,” Anhora interrupted, eyes flashing, “but what makes you think you are worthy of it?”

Arthur blinked, mouth shifting uncertainly.

“You, Arthur Pendragon,” the sorcerer continued, pacing to the side, “with your legacy of blood.”

Arthur swallowed, fingers brushing against his thigh as his hands began to quiver. “I- That wasn’t-”

“You?” Anhora finished. “One does not have to be holding the sword to get blood on their hands. But you have done that too, haven’t you?” His eyes flickered with gold, and Arthur instinctively recoiled.

“I-I don’t-”

“The druid camp?”

Arthur’s knees faltered, and he stumbled back, eyes wide with horror. “How-How do you-”

“I see into men’s hearts,” Anhora snarled, dropping his head and glaring with steely eyes. “I see the dark, the secrets, the screams that haunt your dreams at night.”

Arthur staggered, sucking in the dirt-scented air in a desperate attempt to stave the growing bile in his throat.

“So, tell me, Arthur Pendragon,” the man said, planting his staff in the ground as he halted his advance, “are you worthy?”

Arthur’s breaths echoed around the clearing, ragged and damp, and he bowed his head, squeezing his eyes shut against the memories. He clenched his fists, the pain in his palms centering him somewhat, and he forced his lungs to slow. “No,” he choked, shaking his head. He swallowed before he lifted his face, jaw squaring with determination, “I’m not.” He shrugged, broken and helpless. “You’re right; my heart isn’t pure. I’ve done…so many things, terrible things, things I doubt I will ever forget.”

Anhora’s blue eyes were sharp and focused, but he did not move, an apparent statue in the sunlight of the clearing.

“You can think what you like of me, judge me as you see fit, and you would probably be right,” Arthur continued, emboldened, stepping forward again, “but I’m not here for me. My manservant is sick, he’s _dying_ , and he has done _nothing_ wrong. He doesn’t even let me kill spiders; he makes me put them outside!” Arthur bleated, waving a hand out at his side. He sighed, biting at his lip as he tried to plan his words, but they were coming out before he’d decided them. “Please,” he said, the first time in recent memory, and his voice cracked over the rusty word, “I can’t let him die.” He shook his head, trying to swallow down the sting building behind his eyes. “I can’t.”

Anhora’s brows were wrinkled atop calculating eyes that darted over Arthur’s face, and, even though his eyes weren’t glowing to indicate any magic, he felt as if the man could somehow see straight through him. “Your manservant,” he said finally, soft and slow, “what is his name?”

Arthur blinked, surprised by the shift. “Er, Merlin,” he answered, clearing his throat to remove the creak. “His name is Merlin.”

Anhora’s eyes widened for a blink, and then he shifted, planting his staff in closer to his body as he smiled. “Merlin,” he breathed, nodding as if to himself. Then, he drew himself up, regarding Arthur officially once more. “Here,” he said, holding out a hand, palm flat and flexed.

A clear crystal vial appeared in the air in front of Arthur, and he jumped back with a gasp, but, when the bottle did nothing but hover, he hesitantly stretched out an open hand, and the cool glass drifted gently down to his palm.

“Give him this potion,” Anhora continued, both hands clasping back to his staff. “He will recover.”

“But I never told you-” Arthur stopped, looking up from examining the vial to find the clearing empty, sorcerer and unicorn both gone. He turned, scanning the trees, but the pair had completely disappeared, and Arthur instead looked back to the potion, lifting it up to let sunlight filter through the liquid, clear with swirls of shimmering blue.

A small groan issued from across the clearing, and Arthur thrust the bottle into a pocket of his jacket as he raced to where Lancelot was stirring.

“Lancelot?” he beckoned, falling to his knees. He pulled at the man’s shoulder, turning his over, and sighed in relief as alert, brown eyes greeted him.

“Sire?” Lancelot asked, and Arthur let out a breathy chuckle, because of course Lancelot would come out of a magic-induced sleep and remember to use his _title_. “What happened? Were we attacked?”

“No, we weren’t attacked,” Arthur soothed, pressing back on Lancelot’s chest as the man made to get up in a rush, and the slight wince of the knight’s eyes told him Anhora was definitely right about the headache.

“Then what-”

Arthur fished into his pocket, pulling out the vial in response, and Lancelot’s eyes widened as they alighted on the crystal.

“Is that-”

“Yes.”

“You found-”

“He found me.” Arthur turned the glass in his palm, unable to stop himself from smiling down at it.

“How did you convince him to help?” Lancelot asked, slowly sitting up to peer at the potion.

Anhora had given him more than enough ways to answer, but none of them made any sense to Arthur, so he merely shook his head, still in a daze of awe. “I have no idea.”

\---

His head hurt first, a veritable lightning storm of agony striking down as he twitched his eyes against the light. His chest came next, the entire castle seeming to be piled over his lungs, fighting his attempts to breathe. Next was his throat, stinging with drought, his lips cracking as he opened his mouth to suck in a raspy breath. Of course, as soon as the air was in him, it burst out, huge coughs wracking his body, and he tried to shift onto his side to ease their passage. From somewhere overhead he heard a shout—his name, maybe—but it was too close, too loud, and Merlin groaned, clutching at his skull.

“What are you doing? Lay back down, you idiot!”

Merlin moaned, unable to resist the firm hands pushing him down even if he had disagreed with the recommendation. “Could you insult me a bit quieter?” he coughed, eyes squinting at the shadowy head that housed the well-known voice.

Arthur chuckled, silhouettes of arms stretching to the side. “Here,” he said, thankfully softer, and Merlin blinked to focus the cup in his hand.

He slowly sat up, wincing with the effort, and Arthur’s face creased with concern, his free hand moving to Merlin’s shoulder to steady him. “Thanks,” he wheezed, and Arthur gave him a small smile before passing across the water. Merlin gulped it greedily from the second the first drop hit his tongue, soothing his aching throat.

“Easy,” Arthur warned, lowering Merlin’s arm to a more appropriate sipping angle, and the tenderness of the gesture caused Merlin to pause, swallowing his current mouthful and holding the cup in his hand.

“What happened?” he asked, voice clear now that it had been watered.

“Well,” Arthur chirped, moving up from his crouch to sit on the edge of Merlin’s cot, “you tried to get yourself killed. Almost managed it too.”

Merlin smiled sheepishly as he ducked his head, fingers circling the top of his cup.

“What were you _thinking_?” Arthur implored, shifting a little further up on the mattress. “You knew the cup was poisoned.”

“I didn’t know the _outside_ was-”

“That’s not the point, Merlin!”

“I know,” he murmured, still focused down at his shifting water.

Arthur sighed, elbow resting on a knee as he pinched at the bridge of his nose. “Why would you do something like that?” he asked, shaking his head as he turned, expression angry and confused.

Merlin frowned, puzzled at the question. “What do you mean?” he countered, sitting up a little straighter. “I couldn’t just let you drink it.”

“Why not?” Arthur blustered, blue eyes flaming, and, for a moment, Merlin could do nothing but stare back.

He let out a small, incredulous laugh. “Because...you’re _you_ ,” he said, lifting a hand to wave over Arthur’s body, “and I’m just…”—he shrugged, dropping his face—“me.”

Arthur scoffed, shaking his head down at his knees. “You really are an idiot, you know?” he muttered, smiling as he turned.

Merlin chuckled, tapping at the side of his cup. “You have mentioned it once or twice, Sire.”

“Well, it would seem you need reminding,” Arthur quipped with a smirk.

Merlin laughed, lifting his eyebrows in acceptance. His smile then faded, and he swallowed, shifting the cup in his hands. “Arthur,” he ventured, looking up from his downcast eyes, “what _did_ happen?”

Arthur tilted his head with a pout.

“It was aconite, wasn’t it? The poison? I recognized the symptoms.”

Arthur wasn’t looking at him, twiddling his fingers as his arms dangled off his knees.

Merlin shifted on the cot, moving a bit closer to draw the prince’s attention. “Arthur, there’s no cure for aconite.”

Arthur bit over his bottom lip.

“I shouldn’t _be_ alive.”

“Well, Gaius found a cure,” Arthur said, smile ringing false as he twisted to face him. “Some rare flower. He made a tonic with it.”

“A flower?” Merlin murmured, frowning down at his lap. “What flower? Where-”

“Merlin,” Arthur interjected, placing a halting hand on one of Merlin’s, covered knees, “it’s not important.”

“But-“

“Merlin,” Arthur snapped again, and the slight edge to it closed Merlin’s lips, “just leave it, alright?” He nodded, trying to persuade, his hand slipping off Merlin’s knee as he stood. “The important thing is you’re alive. Which is good,” he chirped, suspiciously winsome smile hitching on his face, “because you only got through polishing half my armor yesterday.”

Merlin blinked, mouth dropping open.

“I suppose you can take the morning off, though,” he continued as he swaggered backward toward the door. “But I expect you by lunch at the latest.”

A series of flummoxed clicks and sputters issued from Merlin’s throat. “I was poisoned!” he finally blurted. “I nearly _died_!”

“But you didn’t,” Arthur beamed, tilting his head, lifting his arms in an exaggerated shrug. “Night, Merlin!”

“Arthur!” he shouted, but the man only flipped him a two-finger salute and a wink. “ARTHUR!” he tried again, leaning forward as if that would help his shout round the door, but the wood clicked shut, only a fading laugh answering him.

He rolled his eyes, crashing back down to his pillows with an exasperated sigh. “Prat,” he muttered up at the ceiling, rattling his head, but he couldn’t quite stop the tugging at the corners of his mouth.

\---

“Hide me!”

The door hit the stone wall with a bang before Merlin slammed it shut, bracing it closed with his back as he fumbled with the lock.

“Merlin, what-”

“Lady Vivian’s looking for me,” he panted, eyes wide and terrified as they shifted side to side over Arthur’s chambers, as if Vivian might pop out at any moment.

“Vivian?” Arthur frowned, slowly rising from behind his desk. “Why?”

Merlin’s mouth floundered for a moment, brows twitching together as he took a few steps into the room. “She seems to have…taken a bit of a shine to me,” he murmured, cringing as his eyes flickered between Arthur and the floor.

Arthur lifted an eyebrow, folding his arms as he rounded the desk. “That sounds like the opposite of a problem,” he replied, and Merlin let out a strained sigh, rolling his head.

“Yeah, well, she has a bit of a… _reputation_ ,” he stressed, eyebrows rising with implication.

Arthur stood up straighter, arms untangling to his sides as his jaw squared. “I didn’t take you for the kind to look down on a lady for expressing her sexual-”

“What!? No!” Merlin spluttered, shaking his hands in front of him. “She has a reputation for getting attached to servants who then get… _un_ attached from their heads,” he said, making a swiping motion across his neck.

Arthur blinked. “Oh.”

“Yeah, _oh_ ,” Merlin muttered, eyes narrowing, and Arthur had to duck his head to hide the amused quivering of his mouth. “Now hide me!”

“So bossy,” Arthur chided, trying to remain severe as he shook his head. “You know, maybe you without a head isn’t such a bad idea.”

“You’d miss me,” Merlin smirked with a bob of his head.

Arthur couldn’t help but chuckle at that. “God help me, I probably would,” he replied, mouth helplessly compelled to follow Merlin’s grin.

“Your Highness?” A knock rattled the door, Lady Vivian’s shrill tone piercing the wood, and Merlin leapt back, spinning toward the entrance. “Are you in there?”

Arthur stepped to Merlin’s side, scanning over the room for options. “The dressing screen,” he hissed, pushing Merlin toward the paneled covering as he passed.

“Ew, no!” Merlin bleated, nose wrinkling as he eyed the screen. “Your socks are still-”

“You can finish that sentence, or you can keep your head on your shoulders,” Arthur interjected, pausing just shy of the door. “Your choice.”

Merlin opened his mouth, ready to retort, but another series of knocks cut him off.

“Your Highness? Is that you?”

The brunette’s face fell in a glower. “I really hate you right now,” he muttered, scuttling behind the barrier.

“So long as you hate me quietly,” Arthur chirped back, and Merlin leaned back to flash him a sneer before he disappeared.

“Your Highness?”

“Coming!” he called, his footsteps purposefully heavy as he moved to the door. He swept the door open, Lady Vivian startling away from it, hand recoiling from where it had been about to collide with Arthur’s chest. “Lady Vivian,” he said, nodding to the woman and her handmaid, a small, red-headed girl who bowed deeply and would not meet his eyes. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

A snort issued from behind the dressing screen, and Arthur had to bite his lip to keep from laughing, but the anxious blonde in front of him didn’t seem to notice.

“I was wondering if you knew where your servant was. The tall one.” She lifted a hand over her head as a measurement, and Arthur’s grip tightened on the door handle in restraint.

“I have many servants, my lady,” he replied, nonchalant as he shrugged. “I’m afraid I’m not always privy to their whereabouts. Which one are you looking for, exactly?”

“He’s sort of…thin,” she described, hands waving through the air as if she could sculpt Merlin out of it. “Brown hair. _Incredible_ blue eyes.” Her face turned dreamy, and Arthur’s stomach twisted, hot and sudden. “I mean, his ears are a little big, but-”

Something crashed to the floor behind him—his washing bowl, if he had to guess—and Lady Vivian halted, trying to peer around him.

“What was that?” she asked, pushing up on her toes to see over his shoulder.

“Oh, nothing,” Arthur dismissed, shifting to block her view. “Just some armor I haven’t put away. You were saying? Something about big ears?” he prompted, and what felt like a boot hit him in the back. He coughed around a snort, fairly certain this was the best moment of his life to date.

“Er, yes,” Lady Vivian murmured, forehead creasing skeptically. “Do you know the one I mean? He’s with you all the time.”

The back of Arthur’s neck prickled, sensing this was verging on dangerous territory. “I believe I do, yes,” he relented, and Lady Vivian sighed happily, the tension leaving her, “but I believe he is mucking out the stables at the moment.”

She wilted, pouting in a way that reminded Arthur forcibly of Morgana when they were younger and he locked her out of his boys-only fortress—which was only a broom cupboard now to his older eyes.

“I can find someone else for you, if you’d like,” he offered, trying to evoke concern. “What was it you needed from him?”

She blushed, taking a small step back as she ducked her head. “Oh, it was nothing, really,” she muttered, tucking her hair behind her ear. “I’ll just find him at the feast. Er, sorry to have disturbed you,” she added with a quick bow, which he returned.

“No trouble at all, my lady,” he assured. “And, please, do not hesitate to ask if there is anything further you require.”

She smiled, nodding in response, and then clicked away down the corridor, her maid following behind.

Arthur waited, watching until they turned the corner, and then leaned back, closing and bolting the door.

“Big ears!?” Merlin roared, stepping out from his shelter.

Arthur bent down, picking up his projectile boot. “You threw a shoe at me.”

“BIG EARS!?”

Arthur chuckled, and then smoothed his face back to serious, waggling the sole of the boot toward his furious manservant. “You shouldn’t throw things at the crown prince, Merlin.”

“You’re not the crown prince _yet_!” Merlin snarled, stalking behind him as he walked across the room.

“Semantics,” he shrugged, placing the boot on the corner of his desk like a trophy before sinking into his chair.

Merlin looked as though he could breathe fire, glaring down at Arthur from across the wooden surface, arms folded and pulled tight.

“Oh, come on, Merlin. It was just a joke,” he muttered, rolling his eyes.

His manservant only further narrowed his gaze.

Arthur sighed, wilting back into his chair for a moment. Then, he snapped his fingers, finishing in a point at Merlin as he leaned forward. “I know what will cheer you up,” he said, opening a drawer, “writing my speech for tonight!” He tossed a roll of parchment on the desk, grabbing a quill and flicking it atop the paper before leaning back in his chair, lifting his legs to cross his ankles on the edge of the table.

Merlin’s mouth dropped open. “That’s an _hour_ from now!” he exclaimed, arms uncrossing to fling out to his sides.

Arthur let the front chair legs click back to the floor, extricating his feet from the desk. “Yeah, well, I did _start_ ,” he murmured, rubbing at the back of his neck, “but I got stuck. It’s not easy, you know! There’s a lot of responsibility being crown prince.”

“Oh, yes, the trials of nobility,” Merlin drawled, rolling his eyes. “How _do_ you bear it? All the girls and glory.”

Arthur laughed. “Seems like you have your fair share of girls too, if Lady Vivian is any indication.”

Merlin barked a humorless laugh, bending over the front of the desk as he opened Arthur’s unfinished speech. “You can have her. Why is she even here anyway?”

“The same reason all the noblewomen are,” Arthur shrugged, passing the quill as Merlin’s bony fingers beckoned for it. “Now that I’ve come of age, I’m supposed to start looking for a consort.”

Merlin’s arm jolted, nearly toppling the bottle of ink, and he shot out a hand to steady it. “Sorry,” he muttered, taking the quill up again as he cleared his throat. “Wha-What were you saying?”

Arthur raised an eyebrow, but Merlin wasn’t looking at him, sharp cheekbones flushed as he focused down at the parchment. “Well, that’s mostly what this feast is about,” Arthur explained, watching the servant closely. “Yes, it’s my birthday and coming of age ceremony, but most of the nobles are here to ensure their daughters are considered for my future queen.”

Merlin’s hand stalled over the page, quill quivering a little as he swallowed. “Oh?” was all he said, voice slightly higher than normal.

Arthur tilted his head, considering the odd demeanor. “Yes,” he confirmed questioningly. “Are you alright?”

Merlin lifted his face, a bright smile plastered on it. “Of course,” he chirped, and Arthur recoiled, confused and alarmed at the eerily convincing shift. “You wanna look this over before I go?”

“What?” Arthur murmured, the words taking a moment to be understood. “Oh, um, no, it’s fine. I trust you.”

Merlin smiled, but there was something sad in his eyes. “I’ll see you at the feast then, Sire,” he said, inclining his head before leaving, his steps hurried, and the door closed loudly in his wake.

Arthur frowned after him for a moment before spinning his speech, reading through Merlin’s additions. He could see the moment Merlin’s hand had faltered, a slight swipe of ink across the page, and he traced his fingers over the black mark. It was then he noticed a small scrawl written across the bottom, centered just below the bulk of the speech in Merlin’s swirling hand.

_Don’t muck up_

Arthur laughed out loud.

\---

“Nice speech.”

“Hmm?” Merlin hummed, turning toward Morgana where she had appeared beside him. They really needed to put a bell on her, or at least buy her jangly jewelry.

The black-haired woman smiled in that knowing way that always made the hair on Merlin’s neck stand up. “Arthur’s speech,” she clarified, nodding toward where the man in question was shaking hands and faking laughs. “You did a good job on it.”

Merlin cleared his throat, pointedly looking straight ahead. “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean, my lady.”

Morgana snorted. “No, I’m _sure_ you don’t.” She waggled her eyebrows at him, and Merlin turned away to hide his smile. “He did do a good job, though, didn’t he?”

Merlin nodded, and then realized she wasn’t looking at him. “I suppose he did,” he replied.

“Oh, come off it,” she snipped, nudging his arm. “You’re proud of him, really; I can tell.”

“Well then it must be so, my lady,” he said loftily, inclining his head toward her.

Morgana huffed, rolling her eyes. “No wonder you two get along so well; you’re both impossible.”

Merlin chuckled, turning back to the feast just as Arthur looked around at him.

His circlet crown caught on the flickering flames of the torches around the room, and he might have actually looked regal if not for the face he made when he caught Merlin’s eye, mouth twisting into a grimace as he rolled his eyes to the ceiling.

Merlin coughed over a snort, lifting the backs of his fingers to his lips and dropping his eyes to compose himself before shaking his head at Arthur, who was now smirking triumphantly at the reaction. Merlin bit his lip and looked away, unable to keep up eye contact without grinning, and Arthur had turned back to conversation with one of the noblemen when he looked back again.

“Blech!” Morgana spat, nose wrinkling at him.

“What?” Merlin asked, feeling a flush forming beneath his neckerchief.

Morgana shook her head disparagingly. “You can’t really be that blind, Merlin.”

His forehead creased. “What do you mean?”

She rolled her eyes. “Never mind, forget I said anything,” she muttered, and Merlin opened his mouth to press further, but Morgana cut him off. “Oh, here we go,” she mused, nodding toward where an elderly gentleman was bowing to Arthur, smiling as he waved his hands between the prince and his daughter, a petite brunette with a flushed face. “Awful, isn’t it, the way they parade them around like that? Like they’re prized cattle or something.” She sneered as another man approached, greasy-haired and touting a blond daughter.

Merlin shifted in his boots. “I suppose.”

“They’re _people_ , for heaven’s sake! They should get a say!” She growled, folding her arms and shaking her head with disapproval. “ _I_ certainly wouldn’t want to be saddled with Arthur for the rest of my life.”

Merlin somehow managed to smile, shrugging a shoulder. “Well, someone has to,” he muttered, his stomach wriggling uncomfortably as Arthur bent low over the blond woman’s hand. “Camelot needs a queen.”

Morgana’s face was blurry in his peripheral vision, but he could feel her stare on the side of his face. “It doesn’t, you know. Not necessarily.”

His hands tightened where they were clasped behind his back. “Oh?” he squeaked, the question not nearly as casual as he’d intended.

“No,” Morgana answered, not seeming to notice his discomfort. “Arthur could always name someone else as heir.”

Merlin shook his head, the question of who would succeed Arthur infinitely more complex a matter for him than Morgana had any idea. “Arthur wouldn’t want that,” he said softly.

“Arthur doesn’t want any of _them_ either.” She nodded toward the now veritable queue of ladies, princesses, duchesses, and the like lined up with their fathers to greet the freshly crowned prince, raising her eyebrows as she looked back to Merlin. Her eyes pierced him, and Merlin, uncomfortable under the focus, tried to lighten the ever-heavier conversation.

“Arthur doesn’t know _what_ he wants,” he chuckled, forcing a stiff smile. “He sent me back to the kitchens three times this morning because he couldn’t decide what kind of _bread_ he wanted.”

Morgana smiled, but it didn’t seem to be in response to his poor attempt at humor. “He may not always be decisive about his breakfast,” she allowed with a tilt of her head, but her eyes turned calculating again just as quickly, “but Arthur knows what he wants. And, in case you haven’t noticed, Pendragons _always_ get what they want.” She winked, and Merlin felt rather like he’d been struck in the head, none of Morgana’s words getting through to him with any meaning.

“I, er-”

“Oh, Lady Vivian!” Morgana called, cutting him off, and Merlin instinctively searched for something to dive behind as Morgana waved to his approaching doom. “How are you?” she asked, taking Vivian’s hands. “I feel as though we haven’t had any time to talk.”

Vivian smiled, inclining her head, her blue eyes flickering to Merlin for a moment, and he stepped back, looking resolutely anywhere else. “Our visit has, indeed, been rather full, my lady.”

“We must make some time to talk before you go,” Morgana urged, smile strangely wide and bright on her face. “You’re to be here for the duration of the festivities, are you not?”

Vivian nodded, retracting her hands from Morgana’s to fold them over her embellished, pale-blue gown. “At least into next week,” she replied, smile growing wider as she cast Merlin another look.

“We have plenty of time, then!” Morgana chirped, as if nothing delighted her more than Vivian’s company.

Merlin wasn’t sure who was more alarmed by the reaction, he or Vivian, but the blonde quickly recovered, bowing her head and smiling.

“I look forward to it,” she said, and her eyes turned to Merlin again as he moved, trying to extricate himself from the conversation.

“Oh, I’m sorry; I’m being rude!” Morgana laughed, worrying with its insincerity, and Merlin’s concern only grew when she laid a possessive hand on his arm. “Lady Vivian, this is Merlin. I don’t believe you two have been properly introduced.”

Merlin turned to her beaming grin, the picture of innocence, and regretted every time he had defended her when Arthur ranted about ‘that vindictive harpy’.

“No, we have not,” Vivian eagerly replied, eyes roving over him, and Morgana’s fingers dug further into his arm as he twitched. “Merlin, was it?”

“My lady,” Merlin answered with a brittle smile, retreating a surreptitious step as he bowed.

Vivian tilted her head, and Merlin wondered if he looked like a large cake to her rather than a person, considering the way her eyes glinted. “You’re in Prince Arthur’s service, are you not?” she asked, innocently enough, but Merlin instantly thought of about a dozen things he could pretend to have to do tonight if she asked to commandeer him.

“Indeed, I am, my lady,” he answered, rattling his arm loose from Morgana’s grip.

“He seems to keep you very busy,” she said, teeth glittering, and he was reminded forcibly of Kilgharrah, although he felt safer with the dragon. “Tell me, is he a benevolent master?” Her eyes blinked owlishly at him, lips puffed out in a curious pout.

Merlin’s stomach rolled, but he managed a tight-lipped smile. “Exceptionally so,” he assured with a nod. “I am never reprimanded without due cause.”

Lady Vivian giggled. “Oh, I’m sure that doesn’t happen often. You seem like an _excellent_ servant.”

Morgana sucked her lips around a smile.

Merlin was going to enchant her hair to start greying. “I make a sincere effort, my lady,” he said through his teeth.

Vivian opened her mouth, no doubt to reach new levels of inappropriate, when the most beautiful sound Merlin had ever heard broke in.

“Merlin, I need you,” Arthur snapped, suddenly at his side. His expression was tight with anger, and Merlin was seized with a momentary fear that he had done something wrong, but immediately realized he didn’t care. Arthur could be taking him to the dungeons, and Merlin would still thank him for the reprieve.

“Of course, Sire,” he said, bowing before repeating the gesture to each of the ladies in turn. “Excuse me, Lady Morgana, Lady Vivian.”

Vivian looked rather stricken, but Morgana only nodded, waggling her eyebrows as her gaze moved between him and Arthur’s retreating back. ‘Always,’ she mouthed, and Merlin’s smile turned a bit confused.

“Merlin!”

“Right away, Sire!” he called, darting after the flowing, red cape. He maintained a respectable distance behind Arthur as they made their way out of the hall, winding down a few, bustling corridors, but moved up level as they ascended the deserted staircase. “Aren’t you supposed to be riding a white horse when you do that?”

“What?” Arthur spat, unaccountably frustrated.

Merlin blinked at him, steps faltering a bit on the stone. “Er, nothing. Never mind.”

“No, sorry,” Arthur sighed, shaking his head as he pinched over his forehead, rubbing into his temples. “It’s just been a long night. What were you saying?”

“Er,” Merlin murmured, dizzy with surprise.

Had Arthur just… _apologized_? In a regular, human way, instead of his usual, royal, ‘I will admit to making a mistake and then immediately turn it around to being your fault’ way?

“Ya know, a white horse,” he finally managed as they came to the top of the steps. “Like a knight in shining armor.”

“I’m not in armor,” Arthur answered, giving Merlin a curious, sidelong glance.

“I know,” Merlin muttered, rolling his eyes, because he wasn’t crazy, thank you very much. “It’s just an expression.”

“And my armor wouldn’t be shining, even if I was wearing it,” Arthur continued as if he hadn’t heard, “because _you’re_ the one responsible for polishing it.”

“Hey!” Merlin bleated in offense. “That armor is spotless! You could blind someone with how shiny that armor is!”

Arthur laughed, one of his rarer, proper ones, and Merlin smiled at the tension that drained from him. “Alright, alright,” he chuckled, sounding a little more like himself. “So what am I doing on a white horse in shining armor?”

“Saving me, of course.” Merlin tilted his head, beaming, but Arthur just blinked at him, looking a bit lost. “Ya know, from Lady Vivian and Morgana.”

“Ah,” Arthur mused, lifting his head in a nod. “Yeah, what _was_ going on there? You looked even more sickly than usual.”

Merlin gave him a quick sneer on principle before answering. “Morgana was trying to feed me to the wolves.”

“The wolves?” Arthur mocked, lifting an eyebrow.

“Hey, you didn’t see the way she was looking at me!” Merlin defended, pointing across at the prince.

Arthur’s face twitched in a scowl. “Actually, I did.”

Merlin twisted toward him, surprised by the snarling tone, but Arthur merely dropped his head, clearing his throat before continuing with a smirk.

“You’re lucky I intervened, really. Morgana would have just stood there.”

“Morgana,” Merlin growled, shaking his head at the empty corridor ahead.

Arthur laughed. “I told you she was a harpy, but _no._ ” He waggled his hands in the air in mocking, pushing the door open and nodding Merlin in ahead. “You defended her. Thought the sun rose and set with her.”

“Yeah, well, I don’t like her anymore,” he muttered, sounding petulant even to his own ears.

“Oh, really?” Arthur chuckled, sliding the bolt across the door.

“Nope,” Merlin clipped, shaking his head. “You’re my favorite now.” He grinned, and Arthur laughed, unfastening his cloak and hanging it over a chair.

“I’m honored,” he said, placing an open palm over his heart.

“Don’t get too excited,” Merlin warned with a dip of his head. “I have extremely low standards.”

“Well, if that’s the case, I’m sure Vivian-”

“Low standards are still standards.”

Arthur laughed, shaking his head as he shrugged out of his jacket.

“Here,” Merlin said, smiling softly as he crossed the room, holding out his arms for the leather.

Arthur gave him a strange look, as though they hadn’t done this a million times before, but did hand over the coat.

Merlin stepped away to hang the article in the cupboard, and then returned, Arthur startling under his hands as he untied the laces over his chest.

“Your, er, fingers are cold,” he mumbled at Merlin’s raised eyebrow.

“Sorry,” Merlin muttered, rubbing his hands together briefly to warm them before going back to his task.

Arthur cleared his throat. “So, tell me, Merlin,” he said, “how does it feel to be the servant of the crown prince of Camelot.” He smirked, all smug pride, and Merlin bit his lip down at Arthur’s chest, not wanting to give him the satisfaction.

“Rather the same as it did the regular prince of Camelot, Sire,” he replied evenly. “Just with one more thing to polish,” he added with a nod up to Arthur’s head.

Arthur blinked at him, and then grinned. “You’re really not going to let me enjoy this at all, are you?”

Merlin restrained a chuckle. “Just keeping things in perspective, Sire,” he muttered, nudging at Arthur’s arms, prompting him to remove his metal bracelets.

“Oh, and that’s your job, is it?” Arthur joked, slipping off the bands and handing them to Merlin, who temporarily rested them on the table.

Merlin sneered at him. “One of my many duties as servant to the crown prince of Camelot.”

“I knew it!” Arthur cheered, triumphant as he pointed a taunting finger in Merlin’s face. “You do care!”

“Yeah, yeah,” Merlin muttered, rolling his eyes, “now take that crown off before your head gets too big for it.”

Arthur simply stood there for a second, grinning horribly.

“And stop smirking!” Merlin snapped, feeling himself flush.

“Who’s smirking? You’re smirking!” Arthur laughed, pulling off his crown and resting it beside his bracelets before he turned to removing his tunic.

“Prat,” Merlin muttered, shaking his head and averting his eyes from the revealed, tan chest.

Arthur’s tousled hair emerged from the red folds of fabric, blue eyes sparkling over a grin, and Merlin was almost glad for the shirt being tossed over his head, hiding his breathless gaping. “Idiot,” Arthur replied, ruffling at Merlin’s scalp through his discarded tunic.

Merlin batted his hands away, the sweet scent of sweat and earth and _Arthur_ filling his senses as he breathed. He tugged the tunic off before the swirl of emotions overwhelmed him.

Arthur was still smirking at him, and, unfortunately, still without a shirt.

“Do you, um, have your smallclothes?” Merlin asked, looking resolutely at his face.

Arthur blinked several times, and then shifted his gaze around the room. “Er, no, I-I can do that,” he muttered, moving across the room to behind the dressing screen.

Merlin gripped tightly to the back of one of the chairs, bowing his head and breathing deeply as he tried to ignore the sounds of Arthur’s belt. “So, how was your birthday feast?” he asked for something else to focus on, but his voice was wrecked, all high and scratchy.

“Fine, I suppose,” Arthur’s voice drifted out from behind the screen.

Merlin laughed, leaning back against the chair as he turned to face the voice. “You _suppose_? Arthur, the whole _kingdom_ was there, not to mention representatives from all the other ones. And they all brought presents.”

“I’m just not much for birthdays,” Arthur’s response came, soft and muttered.

“Why not?” Merlin asked.

Arthur remained silent, the rustling of fabric ceasing, and Merlin cringed, realizing his mistake.

“I- Er- Shit,” he murmured, fingers subconsciously gripping at the corner of his pocket to trace around the small object inside.

Arthur—thank _god_ —chuckled. “It’s alright.”

“No, no, it’s- I’m- Shit!”

“I wouldn’t quite go that far,” Arthur said as he emerged, loose, cream tunic unlaced in a V down from his neck.

Merlin ducked his head, rubbing up his neck as he fought to curl the corners of his lips.

“Merlin, really,” Arthur eased, lifting his arm as if to grip Merlin’s shoulder, but then his expression hitched, and he let his hand fall back to his side, “it’s not a big deal. I-I don’t even remember her.”

Merlin watched him, heart aching as Arthur turned toward the window, eyes so very far away, and Merlin’s fingers twitched with the sudden urge to trace away the stiffness in his jaw. That clearly obvious loss of any ability to think rationally was most likely the cause of what he said next. “My mother died too.”

Arthur’s head snapped toward him, as if he’d forgotten Merlin was there.

“A few years ago,” he continued, staring down at his hands as he slid them back and forth across the top of the chair. “I just-” He stopped, uncertain, but Arthur’s eyes never wavered, watching him expectantly. “I thought sometimes it might be easier. If I’d never known her.” He gave a quick jerk of a shrug, twisting his fingers together. “Like my father.”

Arthur turned completely toward him now, and it was Merlin’s turn to shift away, pointing his body toward the window.

“He died before I was born. I don’t think he even knew about me,” he chuckled, a breathless huff that quickly choked off. He could feel Arthur staring at him, and cleared his throat, centering himself. “Look, the point is,” he said, turning back to the blond, “remembering or not doesn’t make it any easier.”

Arthur blinked at him, lips shifting aimlessly for a moment. “I- Merlin, I- I didn’t know-”

“I didn’t tell you,” Merlin shrugged, stepping back from the table to begin his escape toward the door. The conversation had gotten too close, too intimate. He’d let down his guard.

“But I should’ve asked.”

Merlin chuckled sharply. “Asked if I was an orphan?”

Arthur dropped his head, not rising to the bait. “Merlin-”

“It’s fine, Arthur,” he assured, lifting a hand between them as he continued to back away. “You know now.”

“Still, I-”

“I should get back to Gaius."

Arthur stared at him, eyes wide and brows furrowing. “Er, right,” he mumbled, looking down at his feet for a moment as he cleared his throat. “Right, of-of course. I’ll, um…see you tomorrow.”

Merlin nodded. “Goodnight, Sire.” He was reaching for the handle of the door when his elbow brushed against the weight in his pocket, and he quietly sighed, rolling his eyes at himself, because _of course_ he’d forget about it until it was awkward. “I, er…” he stammered, turning back.

Arthur raised an eyebrow.

“I got you something,” he said in a rush, looking just past Arthur’s shoulder before dropping his eyes to his pocket as he tried to wriggle his shaking fingers inside. “Well, made, not got, I guess, because you don’t pay me enough to afford anything halfway decent.”

Arthur laughed, shaking his head down at the ground before returning to smiling in the candlelight like a goddamn Greek statue.

Merlin floundered, lungs caught mid-breath for a moment. “I- It- Er-” He coughed. “I mean, it’s not gold or covered in rubies or anything, but I-I just thought…” His words faded, lips twitching in indecision, and Arthur—the beautiful marble-carved bastard—just smirked at him, eyebrow slowly rising in prompt. “Here,” he muttered, finally freeing his hand, holding the gift out in his closed palm while he looked aimlessly off to the right.

Arthur smiled at him a moment longer, and then took his good sweet time swaggering the few steps to hold his hand below Merlin’s.

Merlin suddenly regretted everything about this decision. He regretted carving this stupid dragon from stone—black with veins of gold—using his magic, and what if Arthur noticed, what if Arthur knew? What if Arthur thought he was a sentimental idiot? What if that little stone dragon told Arthur that Merlin sometimes just watched his lips when he talked or held his breath while he undressed him or saw his eyes when he closed his own? But it was too late for any of that now, because Merlin’s fingers were brushing against Arthur’s palm as he placed the carving within it, his magic trembling at the contact.

Arthur lifted the black dragon up in front of his face, eyes wide as he turned it in the light that caught on the ribbons of gold. “You made this?” he asked, soft and breathless.

Merlin nodded, clenching his hands together behind his back.

“I- I don’t-” Arthur shook his head dazedly, looking up at Merlin over the top of his gift. “No one’s ever made me anything before.” He flushed a bit as he said it, and Merlin nearly whimpered.

“Well, now they have,” he said with a grin, but it faded into a soft smile as Arthur continued to stare with that awestruck look on his face. “Happy birthday, Arthur,” he murmured.

Arthur looked between him and the dragon, mouth silently shifting, and Merlin’s chest couldn’t possibly ache any more at the reality of striking Arthur Pendragon speechless.

He bowed his head, accepting the unspoken gratitude, and then turned back, opening the door.

“When’s yours?”

“Sorry?” Merlin asked, closing himself into the room again.

Arthur swallowed, still looking rather desperately lost, but at least he was forming words again. “Your birthday. When is it?”

“Oh, um,” Merlin murmured, frowning down at the floor, “well, I don’t actually know.”

Arthur tilted his head.

“We didn’t have anyone who knew how to keep track of that sort of thing in my village,” he explained with a shrug. “We sort of just went by the seasons; we never knew what _day_ it was, exactly.”

“So, you never celebrated?” Arthur surmised hesitantly.

“No, no, we _did_ ,” Merlin corrected. “It was just- Well, the day I was born was the first snow of the year. Mum always said I called it down with my crying.” He chuckled at the memory, and Arthur smiled. “So, we just celebrated then. The day of the first snow.”

Arthur gave him a curious look, something Merlin might call fond if it didn’t hurt to think about such a possibility. “Guess it’s coming up soon, then.”

Merlin’s smile stuttered, and he turned his gaze. “Yeah, well, I haven’t exactly kept up with the celebrations.”

Arthur nodded, the type of agreement that truly understands as opposed to just not knowing what else to do.

Merlin swallowed, pointing back toward the door with a thumb. “I should really-”

“Oh, yes, of course,” Arthur mumbled, waving a hand at him. “Well, goodnight, and I- Er-” He waved the dragon in a small flick through the air. “Yeah.”

Merlin bit his lip, nodding as an excuse to duck his head. “Goodnight, Arthur.”

The small smile Arthur shot him before the door closed kept a warm light glowing in his chest all the way down to Gaius’ chambers, where he crept past the sleeping old man to his room. In there, however, the darkness started to creep in, heavy with the knowledge of things he couldn’t forget once alone. The shard of mirror burned a hole in the back of his mind, calling even though it couldn’t actually do that. He felt Nimueh’s magic sometimes, no doubt trying to contact him through the mirror, but he wasn’t ready to talk to her yet.

He had confirmed the story Gaius had told him with Kilgharrah—or mostly confirmed, at least, considering the way Kilgharrah talked in riddles—and now had no idea how to proceed. Nimueh had known Uther, a fact she had willfully concealed. How could he be sure he wasn’t settling her score? How could he be sure of the rest of what she’d told him? And then there was Arthur.

He groaned, collapsing onto the bed. Here, in the dark and the quiet, he couldn’t hide from it any longer. He _liked_ Arthur, genuinely liked him, liked him in a way he wouldn’t even call like if he was being honest with himself. He didn’t want him to suffer, to hurt, to die, and especially not at his hand. He was even getting soft where Uther was concerned, so worried about the toll it would take on Arthur.

At least a dozen times a day he considered leaving, considered packing up and running away from them all, but where would that leave them? Nimueh would just send someone else to take his place, someone who didn’t care that Arthur was different, that he wasn’t his father. No, the only solution was somehow convincing Nimueh that Arthur wasn’t the threat she thought he was, that he could be an asset. Of course, he hadn’t quite figured out a way to _do_ that yet, and, thus, he found himself avoiding.

He threw his arm over his face, blocking what little moonlight filtered through the shutters. He didn’t know how to _do_ this! All this talk of him being some sort of chosen savior of magic, Merlin was starting to doubt all of it. Maybe the prophecy was wrong, maybe he could just be some poor unfortunate orphan who helped his uncle make potions and occasionally saved the life of the crown prince. Maybe he didn’t have to be important. Maybe he didn’t have to be Nimueh’s Merlin or Arthur’s Merlin, he could just be Merlin. Regular, ordinary, average Merlin. Maybe he didn’t have to choose, maybe he could just _be_.

Tears stung at his eyes, and he bit hard into his lip to keep them from spilling. He sucked in a gasp, rattling the air out in an attempt to stave off a sob, and, suddenly, all he wanted was to go home. He could smell the fields, see the deer running on the edge of the forest, hear Will’s laughter as they raced to the lake, feel his mother’s arms around him.

He didn’t want this, any of it. He didn’t want this destiny, he didn’t want to be a savior. He couldn’t even save himself. His mother. Will. Arthur.

He opened his eyes, denial burning fierce in his chest.

He couldn’t allow that to happen. There had been enough death in this war, enough needless cost. He wasn’t going to lose anyone else. He would find a way somehow. He would persuade Nimueh, he would protect Arthur, he would convince him to step aside for the Once and Future King. He could do that. He was Emrys, for chrissake, surely he could do _that_!

Still, for all his conviction, he couldn’t chase the fire from his nightmares.

\---

“Gaius?” Arthur called, bursting into the physician’s chambers, having sent Merlin off to muck out the stables.

Gaius turned from his spot at the low, wooden table, eyes wide and eyebrows rising. “Sire. Is something wrong?”

“No, I- Er-” His stomach twisted unpleasantly, suddenly uncertain, but he strode forward anyway, too far gone to turn back now. “I was wondering if I could ask you something. About Merlin.”

Gaius’ eyebrows rose further as he spun to rise from the seat. “Merlin, Sire?”

“Yes,” Arthur clipped, going for official, but missing rather impressively, and he cleared his throat to cover the slip. “I was wondering what he…likes.”

If Arthur had thought Gaius’ eyebrow could rise no higher, he would’ve been wrong, but now there was a small smirk playing at the corner of the elderly man’s mouth as well. “What he likes, Sire?”

“Yes,” Arthur muttered with a sharp nod, gripping his hands into fists as if facing a warrior in the arena, “what he likes. I believe his birthday is coming up, and I- Well, he got me something for mine,” he added by way of non-sentimental explanation.

Gaius’ forehead creased as he stepped closer. “His birthday, Sire? I wasn’t aware Merlin had a birthday.”

“Well, he doesn’t. Not officially.” Arthur didn’t know why he was the one explaining this, why Merlin had told _him_ and not Gaius, but, alas. “He said his mother always used to celebrate it on the day of the first snow.”

“Ah,” Gaius murmured, dropping his head to the floor as he smiled softly. “Well, Sire, I am not certain I would be the most qualified person to ask.”

“What do you mean?” Arthur asked, panicking a little now. “You’re his uncle. Well, practically, anyway. And you live with him. Who else would know if not you?”

Gaius smiled, a worrisome twinkle in his eye. “I was referring to you, Sire.”

Arthur blinked, lips parting with a small pop. “Me?” he questioned, and Gaius nodded. “But I-I only just met him.”

“So have I, for all intents and purposes,” Gaius shrugged, moving across the room to fetch a bundle of hanging, dried herbs, “and you have spent much more time around him than I.”

Arthur’s mouth shifted wordlessly, gaping and flapping in his perplexed panic. “But-But I- I don’t-”

“Sire,” Gaius said, placating, “I would help if I could, truly, but this is something you would be better served to do on your own.”

“But I don’t know what to do,” Arthur said, voice small and terrified.

Gaius smiled, and, in a rare gesture of affection, placed a hand on Arthur’s bicep. “I’m sure you’ll think of something, Sire,” he assured.

Arthur’s answering smile twisted into more of a grimace than anything else, but Gaius seemed satisfied, and gave him a brief nod before moving away to continuing preparing…whatever medicinal thing he was preparing. Arthur watched his back for a moment as he moved about the room, hoping the man would suddenly turn back to him with a surge of brilliance, but no such reprieve came, and he reluctantly turned around, letting himself out the heavy, wooden door.

“Arthur?”

He couldn’t even pretend otherwise; he leapt like a startled cat. “Merlin!” he gasped, breathless with alarm. “What are you doing here?”

The brunette quirked an eyebrow at him, dirt and god-knows-what smeared over his face and clothes, but his teeth still flashed white as he smiled. Three small children huddled behind him, two girls and a boy, and his hands were cupped around something small and…feathery? “I was hoping to take a bath before I went upstairs, but it seems you’ve found me a mess regardless.” He chuckled, and Arthur weakly attempted to reciprocate. “Did you need something?”

“Did I- No, no,” he muttered, shaking his head. “I don’t need anything, I was just…talking to Gaius.”

“Oh?” Merlin inquired, looking ridiculously rumpled and somehow not awful, even covered in manure, as he tilted his head and creased his brow. “Are you ill?”

“No,” Arthur said, stepping back as Merlin stepped forward, looking concerned. “I just needed to talk to him.”

“About what?”

“I- It-” Arthur spluttered for a moment. “What have you got there?” he muttered, focusing down at the object in Merlin’s hands.

“Oh, right!” Merlin blurted, almost leaping a little as he turned back to the children behind him. “They found it. It’s an owl,” he said, lifting his hands up to reveal the small, brown and white flecked head of the creature. “Can’t be more than a few months old. It was out round the inner wall; must’ve hit it last night and got stuck. Its wing’s broken, so I was gonna splint it up.”

Arthur raised an eyebrow, looking between the feathery bundle and the children. “You’re going to put a splint…on a bird?”

“Yeah,” Merlin affirmed, nodding with a dopey grin. He moved toward the door, the wide-eyed kids following in his wake, staring up at Arthur in awe. “You wanna help?” he asked, hand on the doorknob.

“Help?” Arthur bleated, looking down at what he could now tell were the bird’s eyes, wide and yellow. “How would I help?”

Merlin shrugged. “I don’t know, holding it still or something.”

Arthur watched the twitching creature, a wary eyebrow rising.

“Oh, come on, it won’t bite,” Merlin muttered, rolling his eyes. “Well, it might, but it won’t do any harm.” He then pushed open the door, beckoning the children ahead of him before flashing a smile over his shoulder at Arthur, letting the door begin to fall shut as if confident he would be followed.

Reluctantly—but, honestly, how could he _not_ watch Merlin splint up an owl—Arthur did follow, flashing Gaius a quick shake of his head when the man raised an eyebrow at him in surprise.

“Gaius, I need some linen, something I can tear into strips, and some small rods,” Merlin beckoned, delicately placing the trembling animal on the surface of one of the tables.

“Get that thing off my table!” Gaius bellowed, and the owlet—one wing bent backward at an unnatural angle—shuffled close to Merlin’s hand, brown head pressing into his fingers.

“But, Gaius, his wing is broken,” Merlin whined, pulling a face that Arthur could only assume always,  _always_ got him his way, and, indeed, he could feel Gaius breaking under the dewy eyes.

The physician sighed, rolling his eyes and brandishing a wooden spoon at them. “Fine, but you’re scrubbing that whole table when you’re done!”

Merlin beamed and nodded, and then turned back to the children, waving them in closer, but they hesitated, their wary eyes fixed on Arthur. Merlin tilted his head at them, confused, and then followed their gaze to Arthur, mouth opening in understanding. He then gave Arthur a peculiar look, a request in it as he nodded his head down toward the bird still nestled against him.

Arthur raised an eyebrow, and Merlin shook his head, exasperated, before donning a pointed smile.

“My lord,” he said with all the care of a snake, “perhaps you could assist me in setting the wing?”

Arthur’s eyes widened in panic, and he looked down at the owl, which seemed to be regarding him with the avian version of suspicion. “Me?” he creaked, and then coughed, remembering himself and his nearby subjects. “Perhaps that is a job best left to you, as I have very little experience in the matter.”

Merlin raised his eyebrows, flashing the mocking challenge of a smirk he always had when he thought Arthur was being pompous. “Yes, I am sure Your Royal Highness has much better things to do,” he began, and Arthur’s eyes twitched a quick glare, “but, I’m afraid, I can’t manage it on my own, and I don’t believe any of the children are able enough to hold him should he struggle.”

Arthur looked down at the creature, which was still watching him with shrewd, yellow eyes and an expression that most certainly indicated it was going to struggle. Struggle at Arthur’s eyes, perhaps. “I-I don’t know-” he stammered, uncertain how to conclude so as not to admit a weakness.

“I’ll walk you through it,” Merlin assured with an undoubtable smile, speaking soft enough that the children wouldn’t hear.

Arthur hesitated a moment longer, watching the owl’s eyes narrow at him in a dare, and that was really the deciding factor. “Alright,” he said, stepping forward, and the creature let out a small squawk, as if surprised at his boldness, “what do I do?”

Merlin smiled, small and secret and quickly stifled. “First, we’re gonna have to stretch his wing out. I need to set the bone.”

“Won’t that hurt him?” Arthur asked, falling into the trap of personal pronouns, but it was difficult not to grow fond of the precocious little thing, who was still looking at Arthur reproachfully as he pushed himself tighter to Merlin, staking his claim. Arthur’s lips twitched in a smile.

“Not too much,” Merlin muttered, looking up as Gaius knocked something off a table across the room, turning to give his young apprentice a strangely dark look. Merlin cleared his throat, bowing his head to the owl before looking back to Arthur with a too-bright grin. “Can you, er, rip those linens?” he asked, nodding his head toward the small pile of scraps Gaius had placed on a nearby table. “About that thick,” he added, lifting up a hand to indicate the width with his fingers.

Arthur frowned, confused, but nodded, moving away to his task.

“Move more behind me, alright?” Merlin said to the children, his voice notably changing as his audience did. “I don’t want any of you getting clawed or anything if he panics.”

Over the ripping of the fabric, Arthur could hear the hushed whispers and titters of the kids, the shuffling of feet indicating they were quick to follow Merlin’s advice. When he turned back, Merlin was bent low over the owl, worrisomely close to its sharp beak, but he didn’t appear to be in danger, the owl merely blinking…well, owlishly up at him as if Merlin were telling the greatest of stories. Arthur coughed, trying to get his attention, and Merlin startled, causing the owl to ruffle indignantly, rattling its small head.

For a moment, Merlin only stared at him, shocked with a fear Arthur could not comprehend.

“Everything alright?” he asked, looking around to the children, who were curiously peering out from behind the servant.

“What? Oh, yes, everything’s…everything’s fine. You done with those?” He pointed down to the bundle in Arthur’s hands, avoiding his eyes.

“Yes,” Arthur replied, raising a skeptical eyebrow as he stepped closer. “Merlin, are you sure-”

“I’m fine,” Merlin muttered in assurance, snapping the torn linens from Arthur’s grip and laying them out on the table, much to the owlet’s interest.

He skittered hesitantly across the wooden surface, bending down to peer at the cloth. After a few seconds, he grew brave and plucked one up, shaking it around in his beak before releasing it, apparently disappointed it was not prey.

Arthur chuckled. “He doesn’t seem to be feeling that wing all that much, does he?”

Merlin took a moment to reply. “Must’ve gone numb from the shock. I’m gonna need you on my other side.”

Arthur moved, following Merlin’s instructions as they worked over the owl, who was remarkably well-behaved, considering. “It’s alright,” he soothed when the owl gave a small squeak as Arthur wound the linen around his set wing to hold the rods in place. “Nearly there. You’re almost done.”

Merlin’s hands froze where they were testing the knots and rods, and Arthur looked up his arms to find the brunette giving him a disbelieving look.

“What?” he muttered, and Merlin briskly shook his head and ducked back to his work, but Arthur saw the ghosting smile.

“Alright,” he said after a few more minutes of tying and tugging, “I think that’ll do it.”

“Can we take him back outside now, Merlin?”

“Yeah, can we, Merlin?”

Merlin chuckled down at the two girls, who had evidently gotten over their shyness enough to bounce at Merlin’s waist, hands clasped in pleading below their chins. “No, not yet,” he answered, and they wilted with a pout. “He needs some time to heal first. It’ll probably be a couple weeks before he can fly properly again.”

The girls wobbled back on their heels, dejected, but the young boy stood back, simply watching the small owl as it stared back at him, tilting its disproportionately large head side to side. “What are you gonna do with him?” he asked, his small voice barely reaching Arthur’s ears, but Merlin was closer.

“What do you mean?” he replied, kneeling down closer to the boy’s eye level.

The child hesitantly met his eyes, twisting at the cuffs of his ratty shirt. “Where does he go now if he can’t fly?”

Merlin smiled, brilliant and bright and instantly reassuring, and even Arthur found himself a little calmed by the gesture, though it wasn’t directed at him. “I’ll keep him with me,” he said with a small glance across the room, and Arthur turned just in time to see Gaius at the tail end of an eye roll. “He’ll be safe here in Gaius and my chambers.” He smiled again, but the boy continued to look hesitant, his round eyes full of concern as they lingered on the bird. “You can come visit him if you like,” Merlin offered, and the lad perked up.

“Really?” he asked, breathless.

Merlin nodded. “Of course. Just make sure you knock first,” he added. “Gaius tends to drop things when he’s startled.” He winked, and the boy giggled as Gaius huffed, but then the old man only smiled, shaking his head fondly at his apprentice. “Now,” Merlin said, standing upright, hands on his hips, “you lot should get home. Your families will be worried.”

The children dithered, casting glances around him to the owlet, who was now hopping along the edges of the table, as if contemplating a leap down.

“Go on,” Merlin shooed, ushering them toward the door, and they giggled as they scampered away from his pushing arms. “And wash your hands before you eat anything! You don’t want owl on your bread!”

The children’s dramatic sounds of disgust echoed back to them through the closing door, and Merlin bowed his head, shaking it down at the ground.

“They’re not gonna wash their hands,” he muttered, turning back to Arthur, who found himself a little frozen. He tilted his head, searching Arthur’s face with confusion, and it hit Arthur that he was now meant to reply.

“Oh, er, no,” he stammered, smiling awkwardly as he shook his head. “Probably not.”

Merlin twitched a small smile, still looking a little skeptical, and then turned back to their grounded patient. “Now, what do we do about you?” he asked, and the owl appeared to answer, giving a single cheery hoot. Merlin stared for a moment, and then laughed, and Arthur couldn’t help but join him, the way Merlin’s whole face lit up and his body shook as he broke into peals of mirth. “Well, Gaius,” Merlin chuckled, looking across to the elderly man. “Whadya think?”

“I think,” Gaius said crisply, looking between Merlin and the owl, “that my objections have been overruled.”

Merlin laughed again, stepping to the side of the table, and the owl immediately scurried to him, leaning slightly against one of the servant’s protruding hipbones. “Maybe not. Arthur still hasn’t weighed in.”

Arthur himself had quite nearly forgotten he was there, feeling more as though he were watching a dream. “What?” he murmured, swallowing through a dry throat.

Merlin smiled, and Arthur’s throat was in drought once again. “What do you want to do with him?”

“With the owl?” Arthur clarified, gesturing down at the creature, which hunkered down further into Merlin as Arthur hand passed. “What does it matter what I think?”

“Well, you were here,” Merlin replied, shrugging, slender fingers absentmindedly stroking across the owlet’s feathery head. “Do you think we should let him go?”

Arthur blinked, frowning. “But, you told the children- I thought he wouldn’t be able to fly for another couple weeks?”

Merlin nodded. “Yes, at least that long.”

“Well, then we can’t just let him go, can we?” he asked, because surely this wasn’t his decision, especially not when it was such an obvious one. “He wouldn’t survive the day.”

Merlin slowly smiled, and Arthur warmed, feeling very certain he had said the right thing. “Agreed. Well, sorry, Gaius,” Merlin chirped, chuckling as the owl head-butted him, frustrated by Merlin’s stilled hand. “Looks like we have a new pet!”

“As if I didn’t know that the second you brought that thing in here,” Gaius muttered, but his face didn’t quite match up to the irritation. “He’s staying in your room, though. And you’re cleaning up the droppings!”

“I will, I will,” Merlin conceded, lifting his palms at his shoulders. “I promise. Thank you, Gaius,” he added softly, and the man nodded with a gruff grunt, returning to his work of clearing bottles out of a cupboard. “Well, come on then!” Merlin sang, bending to lower his arm to the table surface, and the owl dutifully climbed atop it, claws gripping into Merlin’s forearm as he lifted the bird up. “Let’s show you where you’ll be staying.”

Arthur watched him walk several paces, beaming at the owl that perched on his arm, a strange charm emanating from him. He was younger somehow, and yet older, youthful with passion and exuberance, but aged with compassion. Arthur heart ached in the best way, the scene striking a chord of memory within him, and he knew with all the confidence of battle what he needed to do.

“I’ll see you upstairs,” he said, and Merlin spun around, surprised a moment before he flushed, clearly having forgotten Arthur was there. “After you get him…settled,” he finished lamely, and Merlin ducked a smile before lifting his head with a proper nod.

“See you upstairs,” he confirmed, and Arthur turned before that smile could incapacitate him further.

He did not go to his rooms, however. He went to Leon’s chambers, where he knew the man would just be returning from his watch.

“Sire!” Leon started as Arthur entered. “Is something wrong?” he asked, hand already going toward his sword, body tensing for a fight.

“No, no, nothing’s wrong,” Arthur dissuaded, batting his hands. “I just- Your patrol. It takes you through the caverns, correct? By the treasury?”

Leon hesitated, but his posture relaxed. “Yes,” he replied, wary.

“Who are you on the watch with?” Arthur asked, trying to keep his tone calm, but Leon grew more suspicious.

His eyes narrowed, and he lowered the goblet he had been drinking from to the table. “Lancelot. Sire, what is this-”

“I need you to get something from the treasury for me,” he interjected, and Leon, excellent knight that he was, said nothing, merely watched and waited for further explanation. “I would do it myself, but then my father would know, and…well, he would not approve.” He shook his head, half certain this was the worst—not to mention craziest—idea he had ever had. It was too much, too big, too special. But, then again, that was exactly why it worked.

“Of course, Sire,” Leon replied, diplomatic as ever. “Whatever you need.”

Arthur beamed.

\---

“Shh! Shut up, you stupid owl!”

Merlin rolled over, blinking blearily in the grey, pre-dawn light of his room.

“Ow!” the man’s voice hissed again, and there was a rustle of fabric and thud of feet from somewhere near the door. “What the- That’s it, I am going to pluck and cook you myself! Roast you over the fire and serve you with orange sauce!”

“I think berries would work better,” Merlin mumbled, yawning as he sat up, and there was a delighted hoot in the dark room before claws settled softly in his lap. “Aw, there, there,” he crooned, stroking down the back of the owlet’s head. “Don’t listen to mean ole Arthur.”

“It bit me!” the dark silhouette of the prince bleated, and Merlin chuckled.

“Archimedes,” he corrected, and the figure tilted its head. “His name is Archimedes.”

Arthur snorted. “Of course it is.”

“Owls are renowned for their wisdom, you know,” he boast, and the now-more-defined-Arthur’s head rattled in that way that always meant he was rolling his eyes.

“Yes, and their mathematical prowess as well, I’m sure.”

“Naturally,” Merlin chirped, smiling down at the small puff of feathers in his lap, who was now cooing happily and leaning into Merlin’s strokes.

“I thought you said he wouldn’t be able to fly for a few weeks.”

Merlin’s finger stalled in their petting, and Archimedes nibbled lightly to encourage him on. “He can’t. Not properly, at least, only for short distances. It’s really more guided gliding than anything else.” He may have been talking a little fast, but Arthur didn’t seem to notice.

“Whatever you say. Now, get up.” He kicked at the side of the bed, hands on his hips.

Merlin blustered, looking up at him with unconcealed incredulity. “Excuse me?”

Arthur’s leg bounced, a quick series of nervous spasms that Merlin almost missed, and a lump moved down his throat as he swallowed, eyes averted. “Get up. I need you.”

“For what, waking up the birds?” he spluttered, shaking his head. “Arthur, it’s still _dark_ outside.” He waved a hand at his loosely shuttered window in illustration, but Arthur’s gaze did not shift.

“Yes, very good, Merlin. What a relief to see your eyesight remains unimpaired.”

Merlin glared at him, and even Archimedes let out a disgruntled squawk his direction.

Arthur looked down at the bird, surprised and offended, as if he had heard some hidden word within it, and then rattled his head, turning back to Merlin. “It’s important,” he said, and there was just enough of the edge taken off it, just enough of a request over an order, that Merlin’s indignation over being awoken hours before he was supposed to faded.

He sighed, shifting Archimedes up and off him as he swung his legs over the side of the mattress.

Arthur tilted his head down at him. “You sleep in trousers?”

“Yeah, well,” Merlin muttered, grating out a breath as he stretched, “never know when you’re gonna be woken by the crown prat.”

Arthur sneered at him, and Merlin grinned back, rising to his feet. He walked to his cupboard, pulling out a blue tunic and his leather jacket, and then laid them on the bed behind him, peeling off his current shirt.

Arthur made a strangled sort of coughing sound, and, when Merlin looked up at him after releasing his head from the fabric, he had turned away, seemingly incredibly focused on where Archimedes was nibbling at the corner of Merlin’s pillow.

Merlin lifted his eyebrows in a small gesture of accepting the strangeness, and then finished dressing, tugging the jacket tightly around him as the warmth of his blanket faded away, leaving his still sleep-flushed skin shocked by the chill creeping in the window. “Right then,” he muttered, hopping precariously as he forced his feet into his boots, and Arthur jerked in an aborted gesture to steady him, “what was it that couldn’t wait ‘til the sun was up?”

Arthur stiffened, fingers clenching once before hanging slack again. “This way,” he commanded, far too pompous for the hour, and Merlin followed with a sigh, shoulders drooping in resignation.

His first thought was the stables—a bright and early ride his presence was _absolutely_ necessary for—but then turned the wrong way down the corridor. Next, he considered the kitchens—“They always give me too much bread for the cheese; you bring my breakfast up from now on!”—but Arthur turned to go _up_ the staircase, and Merlin’s brow gradually furrowed as more and more possibilities were removed. Finally, he was forced to admit he had no idea what Arthur had in mind. To the best Merlin could guess after all the wandering, they were on the north side of the castle, nearing the first tier of battlements that rounded the sides of the building for patrol.

“Are we going on guard duty?” he asked, wishing Arthur had said something before volunteering him; he would’ve brought his bloody blanket up.

“What?” Arthur spluttered through a laugh. “No. If the day comes when I ask _you_ to be a guard, Merlin, you’ll know I have well and truly cracked.”

Merlin sneered at him, but Arthur just grinned, continuing to lead him up the winding staircase. “Seriously, though,” he blurted after a couple more flights. “Where are we going?”

“Do you have something against surprises, Merlin?” Arthur queried innocently over his shoulder.

“No,” Merlin muttered begrudgingly. “Not normally, anyway. Only when I think I’m about to be locked in a tower to rot.”

Arthur chuckled. “I wouldn’t lock you in a tower, _Mer_ lin,” he drawled. “I’m a prince, remember? I’m supposed to _save_ people from towers.”

“Princesses,” Merlin corrected, “not servants, and aren’t those princes supposed to be handsome?”

“You know, on second thought, maybe we’ll just forget it and-”

“No, no!” Merlin spluttered, stumbling on a step as he grappled at Arthur’s wrist. “I wanna know!” He put on his best pitiful eyes, completely unashamed so long as it worked, and it seemed to, Arthur rattling his head and carrying on with a huff.

They had apparently been nearly there, as Arthur stopped in front of a heavy, iron door a moment later, not able to meet Merlin’s eyes for longer than a blink. “Through here,” he said unnecessarily, bobbing his head at the exit.

Merlin raised an eyebrow. “Are you _sure_ you’re not-”

“I am not going to lock you in a tower!” Arthur snapped, inexplicably irritable all of a sudden, and Merlin’s eyes widened. “Now just- Well, go on.” He shifted between his feet, waving a hand toward the door to imply Merlin would be going through first.

Eyebrows steadily climbing in suspicious skepticism, Merlin nevertheless reached out a hand, grasping firmly to the chilled iron. With an effort, he pushed the handle down, the metal shifting with a thunderous clang in the pre-dawn calm, and he winced in spite of himself. Pressing on through the door, however, his face quickly slackened into wide wonderment.

The grey light of the barely-waking sun was just beginning to tinge with yellow, warming the tones of the city stretching out below him. Smells of roasting meat and baking bread rose in the smoke that drifted up from Camelot, sucked up in a breath of frigid air as Merlin gasped, because everything before him, from the poorly shingled roofs to the trees on the hills far beyond, was covered in a thin layer of snow.

He moved to the edge of the battlement, hardly feeling the cold as he placed his hands upon the stone ledge, fingers melting patterns in the icy covering. A breeze passed, carrying with it a fresh twist of white flakes that swirled and spiraled against the lightening sky, and Merlin was quite suddenly laughing, a breathy, disbelieving thing that burst from the irrepressible warmth bubbling up from his chest.

“Arthur,” he said, voice more air than sound as he turned.

The man had followed him through the door and was now standing self-consciously in front of it, as if afraid to come any closer. “I thought you’d want to see it first thing,” he muttered, looking past Merlin to the kingdom beyond. “It’s been coming down for a few hours.”

“A few hours?” Merlin questioned. “Why were you awake so early?”

Arthur shrugged, pushing at a loose stone with the toe of his boot. “Couldn’t sleep.”

Merlin frowned. “You could’ve woken me earlier,” he replied, not sure why he should be irritated by such a thing, but he didn’t like the idea of Arthur sitting alone in his rooms, not even a fire to warm himself by—unless he knew how to do it himself, which was something Merlin doubted.

“I suppose,” was the only response, but Arthur still looked troubled, a stiffness to his posture as his gaze held pointedly toward the growing, eastern light.

“Arthur?” Merlin pressed after several long moments, moving closer, and then startling back again as Arthur surged suddenly.

“I got you something.” The words were rushed, as if a dam had burst with a colossal push.

Merlin blinked, bewildered. “Got me something?” he echoed.

Arthur’s fingers tapped against the side of his thigh. “Yeah, for your-for your birthday.”

Merlin’s gaping went unnoticed as Arthur delved into his pockets, fishing around with a look of great concentration, and not a small amount of anxiety.

“There,” he said finally, fingers emerging clamped around a small square of linen, apparently folded. He was holding it with great care, sending a rush of fondness through Merlin he’d never before had occasion to experience, and it nearly knocked the breath out of him as he watched Arthur fiddle idly with the corners of the parcel.

“You didn’t-”

“I know,” Arthur interrupted, flashing a meek smile up at him, the only eye contact he was able to make so far. “But I wanted to.” He fidgeted with the package a moment longer, and then sucked in a great breath, holding it out within his palm. “Here.”

Merlin told his arms to move several times before they complied, and his fingers plainly refused to stop their quivering, but he could always just blame it on the cold. He gingerly removed the linen from Arthur’s hand, the weight of something inside making itself known. Cradling the item in his hand, Merlin carefully peeled back each layer of wrapping, not wanting to accidentally pull away the treasure, but, when the final veil was removed, he nearly dropped the whole thing anyway.

The necklace was silver, a bit of tarnish darkening the lines and ridges of the circular pendant dangling from the chain. There was an embossed stamp in the center, as if someone had pressed a signet ring into the cooling metal, and the form of a swan rose up as if it were swimming across the shining, silver surface. Merlin ran his fingers over the image, feeling the darkened grooves of the feathers skipping against his skin. He opened his mouth to find he had no words, but Arthur had luckily been spared the affliction.

“It was my mother’s,” he said, voice nearly carried away with the steadily falling flakes that stuck to his hair and shoulders. “That’s her crest.” He pointed vaguely across at the charm in Merlin’s hand, as if there were any doubt what he could be talking about.

Twin sensations of joy and guilt twisted in Merlin’s stomach, battering against the sides of his throat as they competed for which would be voiced. “Arthur I- I can’t take this,” he insisted, dazedly shaking his head. “It was your _mother’s._ ”

“And it’s been gathering dust in the treasury, along with everything else of her my father locked away,” Arthur replied bitterly, eyes flashing where they fixed on the glinting medallion.

“Well, still,” Merlin murmured, because what else was there to say to something like that? “You should have it. Or someone else, someone important.”

Arthur tilted his head with a puzzled expression, and Merlin’s words raced against his flush.

“Some other royal,” he amended hastily, boots clicking softly as he shifted on the stone. “I mean, isn’t this the sort of thing you ought to give to…an heir or-or a wife?” If he choked a little on the word, Arthur didn’t seem to notice, and Merlin swallowed hard to prevent a relapse.

Arthur placed his hands in the pockets of his trousers, apparently immune to the cold. He was wearing only his red tunic, bereft of even his knight’s cloak to protect him, and looked out over the low stone wall, eyes squinting against the rising sun as it spread its pink tendrils out from the horizon to meet the purpling blue overhead. “Perhaps,” he mused, “but I’m not certain- I don’t believe…” He trailed away with a sigh, dragging a hand down from his forehead to his jaw. “If I marry”—Merlin’s heart did an unapproved flip in his chest at the uncertainty—“it will be for political convenience, not for- Well,” he muttered with a small cough, “I’m unlikely to have any affinity for her personally. And, to be quite honest,”—he turned, fixing Merlin with a smile that drooped with sadness around the edges—“it is with other royals that I would feel most uncomfortable leaving it.”

Merlin looked down at the shining piece of silver in his hand, fingers twitching uncertainly over the metal. “But why?” he asked, lifting his head. “I mean, I’m just...me,” he mumbled, shrugging.

Arthur chuckled, watching his feet kicking at the flagstones. “That you are,” he said, smile brighter now, “but that’s sort of the point.”

Merlin blinked at him, shaking his head to indicate his continued confusion.

Arthur folded his arms, ambling a few steps toward the sunrise. “I know very little of my mother, as you know,” he began, inclining his head, “and what little I do know, I’ve heard from Gaius, as my father refuses to speak of her.” His eyes darkened, a momentary shadow before he continued. “But I _feel_ as if I knew her, through his stories.” His eyes grew far away, skimming over the horizon as if he could see through to Avalon itself, a small smile playing at his lips. “She loved Camelot, though she had no claim to it, and the people loved her in return. Once, when disease was spreading in the lower town, my father ordered the gates shut, and all provisions were to be kept within the castle to ensure the court’s survival. My mother”—he smiled again—“locked herself in her rooms, refusing to eat unless her people could as well. Nearly starved herself before my father relented.”

Merlin ducked his head, smiling, knowing there was yet another Pendragon whom he did not doubt would do the same rash thing without a second thought.

“She’d read to them too,” Arthur continued, carried away now, it seemed, with his memories, albeit once-removed. “Gather out in the town square. Philosophy, fables, whatever she could lay her hands on. She’d sit out there and read to them for _hours_ , sometimes even sending guardsmen to bring torches so they could continue into the night.” Arthur chuckled, but Merlin dared not join in, afraid to break him from the image before his mind’s eye. It seemed, however, a needless effort, as Arthur turned to him a moment later. “So, the other day, when I saw you with the bird and the children...”

Merlin nodded his preemptive understanding, and Arthur did not quite smile, but his eyes seemed to warm.

He then stilled, taking in a deep breath, arms unfolding as he drew his spine back, and Merlin a tingle of anticipation crawl up his neck. “My mother kept my father honest,” he said, with all the poise of a royal proclamation. “She reminded him that a king is only as good as his subjects, that he must never think himself above them, never mistake privilege for power.” His lips twitched, and he looked again to Merlin, who wasn’t entirely certain his knees were still there. “I think she would’ve liked you,” he said softly. “You never let me away with anything.”

Merlin couldn’t breathe, couldn’t coordinate his brain function into something as complex as that, and was only sure his heart was even still managing to beat because he could feel it rattling out to the tips of his fingertips. He was honored, so profoundly honored, and he imagined he could have spent countless days frozen in that moment and still have had no idea how to express the slew of emotions scrabbling atop one another in his chest. “Arthur…” he breathed, and then found he couldn’t go on.

Arthur smiled, downturned eyes twinkling through his lashes. “Just take it, Merlin,” he said, though not unkindly, and, slowly, half-wondering if he was still asleep, Merlin did, unwinding the chain to its full length before draping it over his neck.

The metal was cold against his skin, a sharp confirmation that he was indeed awake, and he felt the weight of the pendant pull down as he slowly released his grip until just two fingers held on to the medallion, twisting it to face him. Finally, he let it go, relishing the small pressure of it against his sternum. “Thank you,” he said, hoping even a portion of the awe, the shock, the daze of joy he felt was transferred through those words, because he knew how precious this was, and he wanted Arthur to know he understood the weight of the burden far exceeded the measurement of its metal.

Arthur smiled, remaining anxiety loosening up around the edges. “You’re welcome,” he replied, and then the seconds stretched away from them as they stood apart, staring at one another in the breaking-to-yellow dawn.

Finally, Arthur cleared his throat, and only then did Merlin hear the beginning clatter of horses and carts from below, voices greeting one another in the streets. “I should go,” he said, gesturing back toward the door. “Father wanted to see me at first light. Something about my speech for tonight.”

Moment sufficiently broken by the mention of Uther, Merlin rolled his eyes. “ _Another_ one?” he groaned. “Arthur, you’ve given a speech every night for over a week! When is this feast going to be over?”

Arthur drew himself up, draping a hand over his chest. “They are celebrating _me_ , Merlin,” he drawled. “I suspect we will run out of wine before we run out of occasion to drink it.”

Merlin barked a laugh. “I’ll be sure to make a toast to your humility,” he teased, and Arthur laughed, the sound seeming brighter in the crisp, clean air.

“Be sure that you do. Everyone should know how humble I am.” He winked, and, as Merlin was laughing, disappeared through the door, closing the metal with a heavy thud.

Merlin turned back to the city, leaning against the stone wall on his elbows. It was cold, his sleeves dampened by the snow, but he didn’t care. He merely stood there, looking down at the pendant spinning from its chain between his clenched fingers. Smiling idly, he looked out over the city, now bustling beneath him as merchants set up their stands and hollered at one another over prime locations.

He could grow accustomed to Camelot, he realized then. He could feel at home within her stone towers, learn the heartbeat of her horse hoofs, trace the ashy smoke to smiths’ kilns and bakers’ ovens. He could carve out a place for himself among these walls, these people. He could belong here, with Gaius, Gwen, Lancelot, and Morgana. _With Arthur_ , his mind prodded, and his cheeks tingled with a blush in the cold. He looked down again to the charm dangling from the chain below his neck, swinging in a slow, glittering arch between his chest and the world beyond.

Yes, he could be at home with Arthur.

A loud nicker burst in his ears, followed by rather raucous laughter for the hour. He peered down, weaving his head side to side, as if such a small gesture would help him see through the growing crowd. A path cleared in the throng, and a small procession made their way up the cobblestones, cart clattering away behind them as they came. At the forefront was a man—or perhaps a boy, given his build—walking on his hands, periodically flipping around in a maneuver that made Merlin cringe in sympathy for his spine. The horse pulling the cart was covered in ribbons and bells, the ends draping back to connect with the equally garish decoration on the cart itself, which was overflowing with music and men. Legs and arms flailed from every side, waving and laughing, and Merlin knew this must be yet another travelling troupe come to pay homage to their future king.

He chuckled to himself, watching the gay procession, and then he frowned, focusing in on one face as the wagon rounded a corner, exposing the back to Merlin’s vantage point. His skin crawled over his bones, the cold finally making itself felt, and he clutched instinctively at the amulet around his neck—as if to protect it, protect the precious, fragile hope it symbolized from falling back into the uncertain darkness—because there, sitting on the back of the cart with a fake smile and searching eyes, was Mordred.

\---

There had been no other option, really. He couldn’t avoid Mordred or the boy might think him dead, reporting back to Nimueh, who would send an assault. He didn’t fancy arranging a casual meeting in the marketplace, a quick, faux-surprised exchange of hello, yes I’m fine, nothing to see here, and he doubted Mordred would leave it at that even if he tried. So, there really had been no other option but to follow Mordred, wait for him to be alone somewhere they could talk, and then pick his moment.

Which was how Merlin found himself tugging a struggling Mordred backward into the stables, one hand clamped over his open mouth, breath and failed words hissing hot out the gaps between Merlin’s fingers.

“Stop struggling, you idiot!” he hissed, and the boy stiffened, the fight lessening, and Merlin knew for certain it was because his voice had been recognized when Mordred pulled his hand away, spinning to face him.

“Merlin?” he questioned, blinking. “Merlin!” he added, and all the irritation and panic was blown out of Merlin for a moment as the boy barreled into him, arms tight and hands clinging. “I thought you were dead!” he bleated, voice tight with emotion. “When we didn’t hear from you, we thought- But I had to come check, I had to know for certain. I knew you weren’t dead, I knew it, I could feel it!” He held Merlin out by his upper arms, looking over him as if he could any minute dissolve into a ghost.

The outburst had derailed Merlin, and he struggled to pull the task at hand back to the forefront of his mind. “No, I-I’m not dead,” he managed, and Mordred laughed.

“Well, no, clearly not,” he chuckled, releasing Merlin’s arms as he took a step back and surveyed him. “You look rather well, actually. Manservant to the crown prince must pay well.”

“Not particularly,” Merlin muttered, mind firmly back to its purpose now. “What are you doing here, Mordred?” It was a mark of how much had changed that he only felt a small spasm of pity for the look of hurt that flashed across his friend’s face, but he had larger priorities now. Like keeping Arthur alive.

“I-I was sent to find you, to see if you were still alive,” he began, clearly remembering his own business as well. “Nimueh’s here,” he added, and Merlin barely contained the panicked hitch of his breath. “She wanted to talk to you. You… You haven’t checked in in a while.” There was disappointment there, a personal betrayal, and Merlin did feel a stab at that.

He hadn’t wanted to involve Nimueh, had wanted to keep her away from Arthur and Camelot at all costs, but he had never meant to hurt Mordred. “I-I’ve been busy,” he lied feebly. “There was a tournament a month or so back, and now the feast.”

“Yes, I heard about the feast,” Mordred snapped bitterly, shooting a glare at some unseen point outside the wooden stable walls. “The masses celebrating their prince. I’d rather _we_ were feasting over his corpse!”

Merlin’s stomach roiled at the thought, at the venom in Mordred’s voice, and he regretted more than anything at that moment that he had not taken him with him, that he had let him stay with Nimueh for his mind to be further poisoned by her lies. “Mordred,” he said gently, drawing the boy’s attention back to him, “there’s a lot you don’t know, don’t understand.”

The young man looked at him curiously, head tilting as he frowned.

“I-I need to talk to Nimueh,” he said, accepting his fate, at least that far. He looked into Mordred’s curious, green eyes, daring to risk the truth. “I don’t- I don’t think Arthur is our enemy.”

Mordred recoiled from him, eyes wide, head beginning to shake. “What? Why would you- Why would you _say_ that? Of course he’s our enemy, Merlin, he’s a Pendragon!”

“Shh!” Merlin hissed, stretching his arms out toward the boy, but Mordred retreated even further.

“How can you say that? After everything they did, how can you say that!?”

“It’s-It’s complicated, alright?” Merlin urged, retreating now that he’d seen the violent reaction. “I just need to talk to Nimueh. Is she here? In Camelot?”

Mordred was still watching him, eyebrows furrowed with wary concern. “Yes,” he said, nodding slowly. “She’s down in the caves. Just outside the city gates.”

“Can you take me to her?” Merlin asked, eyes darting at every sound that seemed too near the door.

“What, now?”

“Yes, now!” Merlin snapped, patience growing thin under the anxiety of the situation. “I’ll have to help get ready for the feast soon, and I’m not even supposed to be _awake_ yet, so this is the only time I have.”

“Well, we’d better go then,” Mordred deadpanned, eyes cold as he folded his arms. “Wouldn’t want you neglecting your duties.”

“Mordred-” Merlin began to plea, tired and exasperated, the high of the morning rapidly crashing to shards around his feet, but the opening of the stable door interrupted him.

“Merlin?” said the last person Merlin wanted to see right now. “Merlin, are you- Oh.” Arthur stopped short, taking a half-step back in surprise as he rounded one of the stalls, eyes falling on them where they stood. Close together. Alone. In the stables.

Merlin’s lungs closed up, willing him a quick death.

“I-I didn’t realize you-” Arthur could not have made this any worse even with an effort to do so, his eyes darting over the scene, every assumption playing out plainly on his face. Then he rattled his head, apparently shaking the shock away as a moment later a demure expression of impartial politeness took over his face. “I don’t believe we’ve met,” he said, extending a hand to Mordred, who was looking the newcomer up and down with curious displeasure. “I’m Arthur Pendragon.”

Mordred flinched for barely a blink, a flicker of the fire banked in his eyes sparking through, but only Merlin would have noticed, having been expecting it. “Will,” he replied, extending his arm, poisonous smile sparkling across his face.

Merlin wanted to run, to scream, to drown in the tidal wave of fury and hurt and hate that crashed down on him with that single word. He understood the point, of course, Mordred using Will’s name at the moment he shook hands with the crown prince, but it was such a wicked thing to do, so cold and vindictive, and, in that moment, Merlin knew he had never known Mordred at all. Or at least he didn’t anymore.

“One of Merlin’s friends from Essetir,” Mordred was adding as he withdrew his hand. “Hitched a ride up here with some traveling jesters. Said they were coming to perform for the crown prince?”

Arthur smiled, turning his eyes to Merlin to share in what he thought was their private joke, but some of the horrible writhing in Merlin’s stomach must have shown on his face, for the blond froze, face unfolding into earnest concern. “Merlin?” he asked, feet shifting in the straw as if to step toward him, but he hesitated, flicking a glance to Mordred. “Are you alright? You look paler than usual.”

Merlin nodded, not quite sure what he was agreeing to, or maybe it was just a gesture meant to soothe? He didn’t know, but he was nodding anyway, head bobbing up and down in a rhythm he could not control or stop.

“Do you need to see Gaius?” Arthur pressed, and Merlin knew he must look truly terrible if Arthur ‘just-spit-on-it-it’ll-be-fine’ Pendragon, of all people, was suggesting the physician. “Merlin,” he said again, drawing closer now. “Merlin, you need to sit down. You look like you’re about to faint.”

“M’not gonna faint,” Merlin murmured, because, in spite of whatever Arthur may say, he was not, in fact, a girl. “I’m just tired. Haven’t eaten,” he muttered, rattling every plausible excuse, but Arthur didn’t look suspicious, only determined. It somehow made the whole thing that much worse, and Merlin clutched at his stomach, sinking to a bale of hay on the ground behind him, suddenly sure he was going to be sick.

“Right, you stay here,” Arthur commanded unnecessarily, as Merlin’s legs seemed to have gone missing. “I’ll fetch you some food and water. Can you stay with him?” This he directed at Mordred, who looked a bit stunned by the question.

“I, er, yes. Yes, of course,” he muttered, and Arthur nodded quickly before turning away, rushing out the door in a flurry of the red cloak he was now wearing.

The whole building was shaking, or maybe it was just Merlin, and he stared at the floor just inside the door, waiting for the familiar, boot-clad feet to reappear.

“Merlin-”

Merlin shook his head violently, the movement sending him into another bout of shivers, and he hugged his arms tightly to his body. “Don’t,” he spat, shocked himself at the malice in the word. “Don’t you dare.”

The warmth of Mordred’s hovering hand over his shoulder dissipated, and they both sat in silence, waiting for the prince’s return.

“I’m sorry,” Mordred whispered after a moment, and Merlin could see from the corner of his eye that the boy was twisting his hands in his lap. “That-That was a wretched thing to do.”

“Yes,” was all Merlin could manage for a reply, but he felt it said enough, and Mordred seemed to agree, as he made no further effort to placate Merlin.

Arthur returned quickly—thank god for small mercies—with a loaf of bread, a small dish of honey, and a jug of water, all balanced together rather precariously in his arms. “Gwen said the sugar would help,” he muttered as he unloaded the wares on the bale at Merlin’s side. “I ran into her at the water pump. Barely managed to get away without telling her where you were. You’re welcome, by the way.”

Merlin couldn’t quite manage a reply yet, but he huffed his shared amusement, and his body wasn’t shaking so vigorously anymore, as if Arthur’s very presence warmed the chill from his bones.

He didn’t often think of Will, not if he could help it, and, when he couldn’t, he tried to pick the happier moments. Stealing apples from Mr. Pritchard’s trees, magically turning the Harvells’ sheep yellow, outrunning Old Man Weston’s irritable, even-older goat. He tried to call those memories up now, but it was too far gone, his mind unprepared for the onslaught following Mordred’s words, and he couldn’t go back now and stopper the flow, the replaying final moments of his friend’s life as he ran toward Merlin to help. However, it was small comfort to find that Mordred’s cruel jab had not hit its desired mark, and Merlin felt an even stronger pull now, a fierce determination to ensure no one else died needless deaths in a pointless war.

“Thank you,” he said, a little belatedly, but Arthur smiled all the same. Merlin ripped off a chunk of the bread, dipping it in the honey before carrying it to his mouth, and was surprised to find the syrupy sweetness did help, coating his tongue and carrying away the taste of guilt and bile. “S’ good,” Merlin murmured through the sugar and starch, and then swallowed, clicking his tongue a few times in preparation for clearer speech. “So,” he muttered, swigging from the jug of water to dislodge the few, remaining crumbs, “what was it you needed?”

Arthur tilted his head at him, puzzled.

“When you came in,” Merlin continued, hurrying through another bite of bread as he waved at the stable door. “You were looking for me.”

“Oh, right,” Arthur said, princely composure returning. “I was going to tell you that you have the day off. I already spoke with Gaius and the cook, so no one should be bothering you.”

“The day off?” Merlin repeated, swallow rough in his dry throat, and he took another gulp of water to soothe it. “But what about the feast?”

Arthur lifted an eyebrow. “I thought you’d be glad to get out of one.”

“Well, yeah,” Merlin muttered with a hesitant shrug, “but, I dunno, they’re not _all_ bad.”

Arthur smiled to the ground for a moment. “By all means, come if you want. Just don’t do anything else, alright? No polishing armor or mucking out stables or carrying firewood.”

“Was it Gwen?” Merlin asked, tilting his head in earnest inquiry. “Did she tell you I was pregnant? I knew I shouldn’t have trusted her, but I just had to tell someone, ya know?”

Arthur laughed, shaking his head. “You’re ridiculous,” he mocked, but it sounded more like a compliment, especially when paired with a fond grin Merlin quickly returned. “I’ll see you later, then?” he asked, turning to leave, but waited for Merlin’s answering nod before moving to the door. “Oh, it was good to meet you,” he added, inclining his head to Mordred, who looked appropriately stunned. “Make sure he takes it easy, alright? No heavy lifting.” He grinned, flashing a wink.

“Don’t you have a speech to write?” Merlin snapped, and Arthur laughed, closing the door and leaving the two druids alone once again.

It was quiet for a long moment, only the sounds of town and the small shuffling and breathing of horses encroaching on the silence.

“So,” Mordred muttered, voice a little higher than usual, “that’s Arthur Pendragon.”

Merlin nodded, still staring at the abandoned doorway. “Indeed, it is,” he replied not able to entirely stifle his warm smile.

“He’s…not what I expected,” Mordred murmured, and Merlin smiled properly at that, ducking his head before looking back up at the boy, watching the young man’s face twisting in confliction.

“Come on,” Merlin said, offering him a reprieve from his obvious inner turmoil. He rose from the bale, nudging Mordred on the arm as he went. “Let’s go talk to Nimueh.”

Mordred smiled gratefully, and then led the way, pushing the door open for Merlin before heading out into the streets. It was a long walk, and they almost seemed to be going in circles, so winding and numerous were the tunnels, but, at last, there was a light near the curve of one of the stone passageways, and Merlin stiffened, his blue orb leading their way brightening with his resolve.

“Mordred,” Nimueh’s voice said, and a shadow appeared on the wall. “It’s about time. I was about to send someone to-” She stopped as she turned the corner, eyes widening as they alighted on Merlin. “Merlin?” she breathed, stepping forward, her eyes roving over him in disbelief. “You’re- You’re alive! We- We thought-” She stammered, head shaking slightly as she continued to gape. “It is so good to see you unharmed.”

Merlin almost believed her. Almost. But now that he knew Nimueh had lied about Uther, he looked at her differently, looked past the concern and built-up appearances of what he wanted to see, and he noticed the cold in her eyes through the entire pseudo-emotional speech. His eyes narrowed, and her expression faltered, façade dropping to suspicion and curiosity, as if he were being evaluated all over again.

“You wanted to see me?” he asked, voice dead.

Nimueh’s lips quirked in a dangerous twitch of a smile. “I didn’t expect I would,” she said, airy and unconcerned once again. “We thought you were dead.”

“So I’ve heard,” Merlin replied, crossing his arms in defiance as Nimueh’s eyes flashed. “We need to talk, Nimueh.”

Mordred’s small intake of breath was the only sound, although Nimueh’s eyes did widen, and Merlin realized quite suddenly that he had never used her name so simply with her before. It felt right, though, like a levelling of the ground, and Nimueh’s smile turned so sweet, it could only be described as wicked.

“Yes, I can see that,” she said, as if to herself, and then snapped at Mordred, eyes never leaving Merlin’s. “Leave us.”

Mordred flicked a quick glance at Merlin, but Merlin doubted it would have made any difference he had been screaming for him to stay, before bowing his head and turning away, his boots echoing off the walls as he retreated.

“Well, well,” Nimueh drawled, folding her pale, thin arms across her chest as she sidled to his left, “Camelot has certainly changed you. All grown up now, are we?” She grinned, flashing glittering, white teeth, and Merlin fought the urge to tug at his neckerchief, suddenly very conscious of his exposed throat.

“I know about Uther,” Merlin said, and was greeted with the rather pleasant sight of Nimueh’s face falling with surprise. “About you working with him and Ygraine.”

Nimueh smiled again, a tight twisted thing that made Merlin’s inside coil. “Oh, really?” she asked, voice light as ever, but there was an edge to it now that suggested Merlin tread carefully. “And what do you think you know about that?”

“They came to you to help conceive a child,” Merlin explained, ignoring the woman as she circled around his back, but he could feel her eyes on the back of his head, like the prickling in the air just before lightning strikes. “And you did, but you didn’t tell them the price would be Ygraine’s life.”

“I didn’t know!” Nimueh spouted, and, this time, as she rounded back to Merlin’s front and glared at him with wide, fervent eyes, he knew the emotion was genuine. “I told them magic always has a price, that the price for creating a life would be high. I did not know the queen’s life would be the forfeit.”

“But you didn’t stay,” Merlin continued, unmoved. “You didn’t help them, you didn’t explain. And then Uther went mad, blamed all magic for her death.”

Nimueh laughed, shrill and manic. “Uther was mad long before then, _boy_!” she spat. “He was mad with power, with greed. He didn’t care what the cost was, he just wanted an heir. I tried to refuse him, you know,” she said lightly, turning her eyes to Merlin as she paced. “Tried to warn him, to convince him not to interfere with the natural order. If his wife couldn’t conceive, she wasn’t meant to; destiny is not a thing to be meddled with. But he wouldn’t listen. He imprisoned me,” she hissed, voice rattling, eyes wild. “Tortured me for _weeks_ before I agreed. And, even then, I only did it out of fear. He was already planning to execute me and move on to someone else. I didn’t have a choice!”

Merlin’s brow was furrowed, lips moving in indistinct motions of hesitation as he watched Nimueh raving in front of him. Gaius had never told him that, never mentioned Nimueh being imprisoned. Kilgharrah hadn’t either, for that matter, but the dragon hardly ever said anything meaningful when Merlin _asked_ , let alone just offered up unsolicited details. It was possible Gaius didn’t know, that Uther had never told him the exact means he had acquired a sorceress. However, it was also possible Nimueh was lying, and it was on that conclusion that Merlin’s mind settled.

“Then why not tell me?” he pressed, shifting his stance. “Why send me here to kill Uther and not tell me that you knew him, that he’d tortured you? Why lie about the whole reason we’re even _doing_ this!?”

Nimueh stiffened, fists clenching as she rounded to face Merlin. “My shared past with Uther has _nothing_ to do with-”

“Of course it does!” Merlin interjected, and Nimueh was startled enough to lean back. “How can it not? He _tortured_ you, you said it yourself. Your deal is the entire reason we’re here, that any of us are here! The Great Purge would never have even _happened_ if you hadn’t-”

Nimueh was laughing again, even more crazed than before, and there was a definite crackling in the air now as her magic sparked dangerously. “You think this was _my_ doing? That Uther’s massacre was out of _grief_!?” Her laughter grew, as if Merlin were the most ridiculous creature she had ever laid eyes on. “He hated magic _long_ before I met him. Oh, he was content to use it when he needed it,” she added, eyebrows rising as she nodded, “but he was never going to let us live in peace. The second he had his son in his arms, we were all as good as dead. The plans for the Great Purge were drawn up _months_ before his little brat was even _born_!

There was so much hate in her eyes, loathing hanging thick on every syllable, and, no matter how little else may be true, he knew that one detail most certainly was.

“But why lie?” Merlin asked, gentler now, too tired to keep up being self-righteous.

Nimueh sighed, an uncharacteristic exposure of weakness that made Merlin instantly suspicious. “I was ashamed,” she said, shaking her head. “I was ashamed of my involvement, afraid you would think exactly what you _did_ think: that I was somehow to blame for the slaughter reaped upon our kind.” She looked up at him, eyes sad and earnest, and Merlin truly would have loved to be able to trust her, as distraught as she looked. “I did not want you to think I had sent you for some kind of personal revenge. I do not delight in death, but this is _necessary_ , Merlin,” she urged, taking a step closer to him, hands shifting as if to take his own, but a quick twitch of his eyes prompted her to hold their separation. “You know what the prophecy says. You are to help the Once and Future King rise to power and restore Albion. And, to do that,” she said, softer now, as if she truly regretted it, “the Pendragons must die.”

Merlin was shaking his head before she had even finished. “No,” he snapped, and Nimueh’s eyes flashed at the impudence. “There has to be another way. A way that no one else has to die.”

Nimueh chuckled dryly. “What? We send ambassadors? Have diplomatic dinners? _Vote_?” She laughed, shaking her head. “You are a lot of things, Merlin, but I never took you for a fool. Uther would never agree to _peace_! He would go along with the idea, perhaps, but only to lock the doors during the meeting and kill us where we stood.”

Merlin winced, an involuntary acknowledgement of the truth of the words. “Uther, no,” he agreed, shaking his head. “But he is an old man, growing frailer by the day.” It wasn’t exactly true, there was nothing imminently wrong with Uther than Merlin had seen, but time was the enemy of us all, and not even Uther could hope to be reversing it.

Nimueh raised an eyebrow. “What are you saying, Merlin?”

Merlin swallowed, dropping his eyes as he composed himself to say what he had been repeating in his head ever since Mordred had mentioned Nimueh was here. “I’m saying that, while Uther is, indeed, a lost cause, he is not much longer for this life.” He paused, allowing the words a moment to settle in the silent air between them. “And, upon his death, I do not believe Arthur would be quite so unmoved by our plight.”

Nimueh did nothing but stare at him for several long moments. “Arthur?” she questioned flatly, as if to clarify.

Merlin nodded.

“You believe Arthur would be…sympathetic.” It was phrased as a statement, although one she clearly thought him stupid for believing, and Merlin fought not to glare at her. Now was not the time.

“I believe he could be reasoned with,” Merlin amended, preparing his speech. “Uther’s efforts to rid Camelot of sorcery have made them vulnerable to attack, especially from nearby kingdoms where the people have fled. My own history is evidence of that.” He waved a hand over his sternum, and Nimueh nodded, in acknowledgement or sympathy, he couldn’t say. “The surrounding kingdoms will seek to take advantage of Camelot, using magic as a weapon they know we cannot match.”

“We?” Nimueh caught, expression shrewd, and Merlin’s jaw twitched.

“Force of habit,” he muttered, shrugging. “I have lived here some time.”

“Indeed,” Nimueh said, slow, calculating, and Merlin felt the full weight of her gaze as it settled on him, the feelers of foreign magic prodding at the edges of his mind, but he was strong enough to repel her infiltration, and held his ground. “This Arthur,” she said, as if she did not know who he was by his name alone, “you believe he can be turned to our side?”

“I believe he can be made to understand,” Merlin rephrased, uncomfortable with the phrasing of war, all sides and factions and absolutes.

Half of Nimueh’s mouth lifted as she tilted her head. “And yet, you have not told him.”

Merlin did not need to ask what she meant. “I-I do not wish to put him in that position, my lady,” he murmured, feeling a return to formality would be wise. “So long as Uther is still living, still king,” he added to stall off any morbid ideas, “it would be…difficult for him.”

“You do not believe he would choose you?”

It did not escape Merlin that it was a question, that Nimueh was not confident of the answer, and that alone made a small spark of hopeful confidence flare in Merlin’s chest. “I-I do not believe he would let me die,” he answered, certain of the words as soon as he said them. “He is not cruel,” he continued, meeting Nimueh’s curious gaze with confidence now. “He would not punish magic for magic’s sake with death, not if no one got hurt.”

Nimueh watched him, eyes narrowing slightly as that familiar prying sensation swept over him. “You care for him.” She sounded more certain than ever.

Merlin blinked, dropping his eyes, a frightened flutter in his heart. “I-I would not wish to see him harmed.”

It was a long moment before Nimueh spoke again. “And Uther?”

Merlin lifted his head, taking a breath with relief of having passed the more difficult topic. “I am…less concerned for Uther,” Merlin admitted with a small incline of his head, “but I would not wish to kill him, not before his time. If magic were to be implicated in his death, I fear it may poison Arthur against us for good.”

Nimueh nodded, seemingly deep in thought. “Very well,” she replied cautiously. “I will consider your proposal. But, Merlin?” she added, eyes sharp with focus as she looked at him squarely. “Do not let yourself be blinded by sentiment. Arthur may not be his father, but he is still a Pendragon.” She dropped her chin, expression unyielding. “Be certain you do not forget that.”

Merlin nodded, grateful, at least for the moment, to have escaped her wrath, but there was something in the intense focus of her eyes that set something cold and slimy loose in the pits of his stomach, a slow, creeping kind of dread. “I won’t, mistress,” he assured, title back in place as he bowed his head. “And thank you for your continued faith.”

Nimueh inclined her head briefly in acknowledgement. “So long as you continue to deserve it, Emrys,” she replied, rattling Merlin a little with the cryptic threat of it, but she left without another word, turning her back on him and moving deeper within the cave

The light he had seen upon arrival was now gone, signaling Nimueh’s disappearing act had been much further than merely around the corner, and he conjured up his own light once again, following the return path the orb seemed to remember better than he. Mordred was waiting for him on a rock outside the entrance and, upon seeing Merlin step out into the yellow light of the forest, leapt up and stumbled over the boulders to meet him.

“Well?” he asked earnestly, scanning Merlin over, no doubt for signs of blood or scorch marks, or any other horrible punishment Nimueh had doled out.

Merlin smiled, allowing the hope that had taken root in his chest to finally bloom. “She’s going to consider it,” he replied, referring to the rather more detailed and colloquial version of his idea he had delivered to Mordred on their way here.

Mordred smiled back, but it was clearly only for Merlin’s benefit.

“What?” Merlin asked, stepping closer, bowing his head to more clearly see the boy’s face. “You don’t think it will work?”

“No, it’s not that,” Mordred said, shaking his head as he looked off into the trees. “It’s just…well, I don’t know, Merlin.” He shook his head as he shrugged down at the ground. “I don’t know if it’ll work. And I’m worried about you.”

“Worried about me?” Merlin scoffed, but the sadness peering up through Mordred’s eyelashes showed he was sincere. “Why?”

Mordred sighed, looking away again for a moment before sharp eyes returned to Merlin’s. “You’re too close,” he said with authority beyond his age, the authority of a soldier, and Merlin’s stomach withered at the sound. “You’re being taken in.”

“Taken in?” Merlin parroted again, with only slightly less derision. “Mordred, I’m not being _brainwashed_.”

“I don’t mean it like that!” the younger boy snapped, and Merlin was startled into stepping back at the urgency of it. “You’re _forgetting_ , Merlin,” he continued, shaking his head, desperate to be understood. “You’re forgetting who they are, what they’ve done. You’re not safe here, Merlin,” he said firmly, clearly reaching his point. “No matter how much it may feel like it, no matter how much they seem to accept you”—he leaned forward, swallowing hard—“they will still kill you the _second_ they find out what you are.”

Merlin shook his head softly, the fresh bloom in his chest quaking with frost. “You don’t know that,” he whispered.

Mordred leaned back, face soft with pity. “Neither do you,” he said.

They didn’t move or speak, simply stared at one another for a long time, more equals now than Merlin had ever considered them before. Finally, Merlin dropped his gaze.

“I should get back,” he muttered, looking up over the rise toward the castle. “Someone will have seen us walking out here.”

Mordred snorted. “And they’d send out a search party for a servant lost in the woods?”

Merlin opened his mouth to argue, but a far-off voice did it for him.

“MERLIN?”

He flashed a smile at Mordred, who was staring up the hill, alarmed.

“It’s just Lancelot,” Merlin assured, stepping up onto the rocks and heading up toward the voice. “One of Arthur’s knights. And a friend,” he added as Mordred hesitated to follow.

The boy did eventually, clamoring up after Merlin, who whistled and waved as soon as Lancelot came into sight.

“There you are,” Lancelot sighed as he approached. “Gwen was worried sick. Said His Highness said something about you not feeling well and then took off.”

Merlin chuckled. “I’m fine. I was just a bit lightheaded. I’d forgotten breakfast.”

Lancelot rolled his eyes, clearly wondering how Merlin managed on a day-to-day basis, and then his gaze alighted on Mordred with polite curiosity.

“Oh, right,” Merlin muttered, stepping to the side. “Lancelot, this is- er-”

“Will,” Mordred intervened, stepping forward and stretching his hand toward Lancelot while he shot Merlin an apologetic look. He knew Merlin had never again been able to say Will’s name aloud. “I’m a friend of Merlin’s from back home.”

“Lancelot,” the knight answered, smiling as he gave Mordred’s hand a firm bob. “It’s a pleasure to meet you. Merlin didn’t mention you were coming.” With this, he cast a small sidelong glance at Merlin, a protective check that this guy was alright.

Merlin smiled shyly, nodding in reassurance.

“It was sort of a surprise. Or, well, an accident, really,” Mordred chuckled, ever the accomplished liar. “I hitched a ride with some of the bards that are performing at the feast. Thought I’d stop here a night before looking for someone to take me on tomorrow. Couldn’t believe my eyes when I ran into Merlin!” He laughed, elbowing Merlin in the arm, and Merlin remembered himself and chuckled back. “So far from home. What’re the odds?”

Lancelot smiled, but was still looking warily at Merlin, who knew he could be doing a better job of this whole subterfuge thing. “They do say it’s a small world,” he answered politely, and then addressed Merlin. “Are you certain you’re alright, Merlin?” he asked, and Merlin recognized it as an opportunity for escape.

Instead, he nodded. “I’m fine. Just tired.” He smiled up at Lancelot’s still-hesitant face. “Archimedes had me up early pretty early.” It was half true, at least, the other half being Arthur.

“Archimedes?” Mordred questioned. “The mathematician?”

“No, the owl,” Merlin muttered, rolling his eyes. “What would a dead mathematician be doing in my bedroom?”

Mordred looked thoroughly perplexed, but Lancelot only laughed, and they both followed Merlin as he started up the hill.

Mordred didn’t stay for the feast, instead heading back to whatever dark and dreary hole Nimueh and her clan had hunkered down in, so Merlin went alone, busy as usual with filling goblets and replacing candles. He caught Arthur’s concerned gaze several times, the paler eyes lingering on him more than usual it seemed, and Merlin tried to sneak a smile to him whenever he could, reassuring him he was fine, really, he had been resting all day. Which wasn’t the slightest bit true, considering Mordred had wanted to see _everything_ , but Arthur needn’t know that. At one point, Arthur waved him over—well, quirked his head in a beckoning motion while holding eye contact, anyway—and unrolled his speech on his lap, whispering through a last-minute check.

“It’s fine, Arthur,” Merlin assured again, sighing as he lingered under the pretense of filling Arthur’s water glass.

The prince quickly drained it, keeping him there. “What about this part? The ‘generosity that extends beyond even your magnanimous reputations’?”

“I think you’re gonna win,” Merlin said, nodding very seriously.

“Win?” Arthur repeated, breaking their carefully constructed servant/master pantomime to peer up at him with befuddlement. “Win what?”

“Oh,” Merlin chirped, affecting surprise, “is this not for the elegant bullshit contest?” He tilted his head in confusion, committed to his expectant expression even as Arthur huffed, rolling his eyes.

“Seriously, though, is it alright?” he asked, suddenly too young and vulnerable for Merlin to draw it out any longer.

“It’s good, Arthur, really,” he affirmed, nodding as he smiled. “You should’ve been writing your own speeches all along; you hardly even need me.”

“Ugh, don’t say that,” Arthur snapped bitterly as he rolled the parchment back up. “I hate doing it without you. Everyone else is insufferable; constantly assuring me it’s _amazing_ and _perfect_.” He rolled his eyes with distaste, and Merlin sucked his lips in around a smile.

“And that’s a bad thing?”

“Well, no,” Arthur muttered, folding his elbows onto the table. “But what if it _wasn’t_ good? They still wouldn’t tell me. Whereas you are completely bereft of any sense of decorum and would waste no time telling me a pig could write a better speech.”

Merlin smiled tightly to barricade a laugh. “Well, I don’t know about that,” he replied, going for airy. “Pigs are much better at poetry than speeches.”

Arthur choked on the water he was drinking, spluttering and wiping at his chin before looking up at Merlin, shaking his head as he restrained a grin.

Merlin lifted his eyebrows, and then skittered away, feeling Arthur’s eyes on his back, and, if Arthur looked his way a bit more than any other direction as he scanned over the hall during his speech, well, Merlin didn’t really mind.

Several hours later he would be dreaming of those eyes, watching the everyday scene of putting Arthur into his armor unfolding in his head. Nothing was out of the ordinary, nothing to make it worthy of a dream at all, and then, quite suddenly, Arthur stopped him, pressing a tentative hand to his chest, palm shifting over Merlin’s tunic as it pushed the silver medallion into his skin. Merlin looked at him, questioning, and Arthur slowly looked up, eyes flitting down to Merlin’s lips as his fingers tightened into the tunic, and then he was getting closer, getting blurry, and Merlin’s dreamscape heart was pounding in his chest.

But it wasn’t his heart, and, a second later, he was startled awake by a shout.

“Merlin!?” the frantic voice continued, his door rattling with their fists. “MERLIN!?”

He scrambled out of bed, nearly tripping before he shook his legs out of the linens, and swung open the door with a sleep-wheezed: “What!?”

Morgana stood before him, robe thrown over her night dress, her pale face tear-streaked in the weak morning light, and her hands quivered as they grabbed his own. “Merlin,” she rattled, voice high with a restrained sob. “Oh, Merlin.”

“Morgana, what happened?” Merlin said, body instantly alert, and his eyes searched over her as her hands held fast to his. “Are you alright? Are you hurt?”

She shook her head, a shudder running through her body as she swallowed. “No, I- Merlin, something’s happened. Something-Something terrible!” She choked, a fresh flood of tears spilling over her eyes as her knees stuttered, and Merlin abandoned propriety entirely, stepping forward and wrapping an arm around her as he supported her down the stairs.

A small hiss, and then there was light in the room, Gaius haven awoken and found a candle, now heading toward them to help Merlin ease Morgana down the stairs. “My lady,” Gaius said as he pulled the chair that small bit nearer, lowering her into it with a grip on her shoulder, “what is it? What’s happened?”

Morgana shook her head, eyes pressed closed as if she would open them to hell. “It’s-It’s awful. Oh, god, Merlin, it’s so awful!”

“Morgana, it’s alright,” he soothed, kneeling down in front of her and placing his hands atop hers on her lap. “Whatever it is, we’ll fix it. We can fix it, okay? Just tell me what’s wrong.” And he meant it, oh god did he mean it, and he could tell by the look Gaius was giving him that maybe he shouldn’t, but he could no longer deny the strange familiarity he had with Morgana, this undeniable something that tethered him to her, and he knew he would slay the gods themselves if that’s what was required.

But Morgana only shook her head, the speed worrying now. “No, you can’t. No one can. I-I tried- Merlin!” She snapped her eyes open, staring at him in panicked delirium, her fingers vices where they gripped into his forearms. “Merlin, I tried! I TRIED!”

“Morgana!” Merlin shouted, grabbing at her elbows and pulling her forward as she made to collapse back into the chair in tears again. “Morgana, tell me what happened! You have to tell me what happened!”

She stared at him, and Merlin wasn’t entirely sure she could see him at all until she nodded, her breathing stuttering into something a little less concerning. “The-The girl,” she stuttered through hiccups and swallows. “The one who’s always in the kitchens. The little one, with-with the brother?”

Merlin nodded, recognizing the description of the nine-or-so-year-old girl who haunted the kitchens with her younger brother, both orphans the staff had seemingly unwittingly adopted.

“She-She-” Morgana’s voice pitched higher, and she seemed at risk of losing it again, but Merlin gripped her tighter, and she gripped him back, anchoring herself with a breath. “There was a fire—this morning, when they started the bread—and she- Her-Her brother was inside and she-she-” Her face crumpled, and she hung it for a moment, sucking in a breath that rattled like plague. When she looked up, she was no version of herself Merlin had ever known, weak and worn and defeated. “She used magic, Merlin,” she whispered, and though it was impossible, though he knew it wasn’t true, Merlin felt as though Morgana knew those words meant so much more to him, as if she too could feel the cold stab that surged through his heart. “She used magic to save him, and now-” She faded away, and, though the sentence didn’t need to be finished, it seemed Morgana needed to finish it. “She’s in jail. They’re in the throne room now, deciding-deciding-”

Merlin slid one hand off her arm taking her hand, and Morgana gripped it back, the frantic fight draining more out of her with every labored breath.

“I tried,” she whimpered, a spattering of tears falling onto Merlin’s hand, trailing down the back to slide around his wrist. “I tried to talk him out of it, but he-” She shook her head with a stuttering breath as she clung to Merlin’s hand. “It’s set for dawn tomorrow,” she said, and no one asked what, no one breathed, the weight of sorrow settling heavy over all of them in the silent grey light of morning that brought comfort now, but would betray them tomorrow. “Arthur was still in there when I left,” she continued, sniffling a little, but otherwise composed. “I’ve never _seen_ him so angry.” Her head swung slowly side to side, as if she could hardly believe the memory of it, and Merlin’s spinning mind finally settled on something.

“Gaius?” he said, straightening up as much as he could without yet breaking his grip on Morgana.

The physician’s eyes snapped to him as if out of a daze, and he looked suddenly every one of his years.

“Put on some tea. We have to warm her up.” Morgana gave his arm a small squeeze of thanks, and he smiled at her briefly before continuing. “I’ll find Gwen, tell her what’s happened. She should be down here right away.”

“Where are you going?” Morgana asked, and Merlin was grateful she was only curious and not betrayed, because he doubted he could have said no had she asked him to stay.

Nevertheless, his words were hard when he answered her. “I’m going to find Arthur.”

Her eyes widened only a moment, and then she nodded, a firm jerk of her head that ought to be reserved for going into battle, but, as she released him and he rushed past the staring physician to the door, he wondered if she wasn’t exactly right.

\---

Arthur pounded his desk, the pain in his fingers a welcome shift in focus from the furious red haze in his mind. The wood was bare beneath his aching digits, the contents of the desk knocked off by a rage-fueled swipe of his arm, and papers and broken glass now littered the surrounding floor, his clepsydrae lying in pieces in a pool of water at the base of the wall it had shattered against. He could feel his pulse in his fingertips, hear it in his ears, and his breaths burned as they were pulled through his raw throat.

He had never shouted like that at his father, never shouted like that at _anyone_ , and his body was still thrumming with it, vibrating with the rage and adrenaline and frenzy that had nowhere to go. And yet, at the same time, he felt very small, hopelessly broken and weak, and all he wanted to do was collapse to a heap on the floor and cry for how helpless he was, but that would solve nothing, and, though breaking his possessions wasn’t productive either, he would at least have an easier time explaining that if anyone walked in. Which he highly doubted anyone was going to, considering he was practically a prisoner in his room now, his father’s knights ‘escorting’ him up and now likely posted outside the door. No, it was unlikely anyone would disturb him no matter what he broke or how much he hypothetically cried, but some things not even the knights of Camelot have been trained for, and one of them was shouting earthquakes just outside the door.

“What do you mean I can’t go in?!”

Arthur whirled around, scraping a piece of parchment that was once grain inventory across the stone.

A muffled reply came, followed by a theatrical scoff.

“What, is he supposed to _starve_? I have to bring him his breakfast, it’s my _job_. You know, that thing you do sometimes when you’re not down at the tavern hitting on Ellen Jayton while she picks your pockets?”

Arthur was at the door before the spluttering cry of offense was even out of the knight’s mouth, and he whipped it open just as the man was leaning forward, hand on the hilt of his sword and a very stubborn—and also a fair bit stupid—manservant glaring up at him. For a moment, Arthur couldn’t speak, even as everyone turned to him, his mind sticking to the look on Merlin’s face when he’d opened the door, as if challenging the man to dare attempt it, not a hint of fear or doubt in his eyes. Now, as Merlin’s deep blue turned away from the guard and alighted on Arthur, his skin buzzed with something entirely different than fury, and he felt almost, for a fleeting breath of a moment… _afraid_. There was a surety in Merlin’s gaze, an ice there that held no hesitation, no mercy, only mission, and, in the blink before they softened with concern, Arthur hoped to never make an enemy of the man he had just caught a glimpse of.

“Sire!?” the knight he now firmly believed Merlin was somehow going to incapacitate said, startled by his sudden appearance. “What are you-”

“I’m not leaving,” Arthur snapped bitterly, and the man blinked, taking a small step backward, an only slightly dignified version of cowering, “but he’s coming in.”

Merlin didn’t quite smile, but his eyes warmed. He made no move to enter, however, the reason quickly becoming clear when the now-really-just-asking-for-it Sir Young stepped in front of him, extending a hand to bar Merlin’s non-existent forward progress.

“We have strict instructions not to allow anyone in or out of your chambers, Sire,” he said, and Arthur raised an eyebrow.

“I highly doubt my father intended you to prevent me eating breakfast,” he said drily, and the man’s neck darkened a few shades.

“His orders were very specific,” the knight defended, at which point Arthur stepped forward, prompting the entire group beyond to step back.

“And now I’m giving you new ones,” he snarled, and the two knights—armed, taller than him, and technically employed by the king—flinched.

Merlin only twitched a brief smirk.

“Now step aside,” Arthur added, slow and deliberate, letting the threat of every syllable sink into the air around them.

No one moved, no physically shifting occurring, but something about the knight’s retreated, gave up, and Merlin, always intuitive when it came to that sort of thing, moved forward through a gap.

“Truly, Sire, I must insist-” Sir Young began, evidently more foolhardy than Arthur had given him credit for, but it was not Arthur’s mouth opening and the spark of fury in his eyes that caused the man to stall his protest. No, he was looking at Merlin.

The knight’s hand had grabbed onto the servant’s shoulder, wrapping around the edge of his arm, and Merlin’s eyes shot down to the invading digits before following up the knight’s arm to his face, and there again Arthur saw the look of brokered power, of the righteous kind of fury he always imagined sitting on the countenance of angels he was warned reaped vengeance and death upon the unjust.

Arthur couldn’t breathe.

Under the weight of Merlin’s steady gaze, Sir Young retracted his hand, mute as he stepped back, staring at the servant with something between terror and shock.

Without a word, Merlin turned, taking the two steps to the door and ducking in past Arthur, who did not even so much as look at the men before shutting them out.

Arthur stared at the wood for a moment, releasing a breath to ease the tension of the altercation from his body, and then turned to find Merlin _right there_.

“Are you alright?”

Arthur blinked. It hadn’t been what he was expecting, and the shift was almost jarring: from a screaming match with his father to Merlin’s hushed tones and roving, blue concern. “What?” he murmured, voice watery to his ears.

Merlin’s forehead furrowed as he searched Arthur’s face, and then he turned away to place the breakfast plate on the table, the sparse sampling of bread, cheese, and cured meat clearly more his excuse than Arthur’s meal. “Morgana told me what happened,” he continued as Arthur stepped a bit further into the room, drawing up level with Merlin when he looked back. “Are you alright?”

It was not a question often asked of the crown prince, not sincerely anyway, and it bowled Arthur over even hearing it the second time. “I- Yes-” he stammered, but Merlin held his gaze, expression never wavering. Arthur sighed, swallowing hard as he dropped his head and rubbed at the temped of his forehead. “No,” he admitted, and the word was raw in his wrecked throat.

A few clicks of boots and Merlin was there again, hands twitching helplessly at his sides as he earnestly searched Arthur’s face. “What can I do?” he asked, and Arthur could _feel_ the touch in the words, the arms wrapped around him, the hands on his face pushing out creases worn from exhaustion and heartache, but Merlin never moved.

“Nothing,” Arthur said, though if he was still talking to Merlin or reprimanding himself for his own ineptitude, he wasn’t certain. “There’s nothing.”

Merlin looked away, shaking his head, still in the stubborn stage of denial Arthur had passed through long ago, although Merlin was quieter about it. “There must be something,” he hissed, clearly conscious of their audience. “Where is she being held? How many guards? Surely we can get her out.”

Arthur huffed a laugh made of glass. “And take her where, Merlin?” he asked rhetorically, the thought having already occurred and been dismissed a thousand times. “They’ve lived here their entire lives. They have no family, no friends beyond those here in the castle and town.” Arthur waved a helpless hand out to his side. “Even if I could get her out, there’s nowhere they could go they’d be safe, and they’re too young to support themselves.”

“Someone could go with them,” Merlin tried, but, again, Arthur had been there before.

“Who? Who would do that? Who could we _trust_ to do that?” he asked, because, somehow, he and Merlin had ended up the only two on a team against circumstance. “I can’t leave. _You_ can’t leave. Lancelot or Leon would do it, I’m certain, but could we ask that of them? To give up their entire lives to go on the run with a couple of kids, knowing the best knights Uther can spare are on their trail?”

“I can leave,” Merlin said, and it startled Arthur how easily it came out, how certain, and his tongue moved before he could check the weakness.

“You can?” he asked, and he could tell Merlin knew he didn’t mean it like an offer when the man ducked his head, eyes darting down and away.

“I-I don’t want to,” he answered, barely audible before he looked up, “but I would. For this.”

Arthur looked at his servant and felt suddenly so horrible for making him that, for keeping someone like Merlin in a place like this, for exposing something so good, so kind, so _pure_ to a world of evil and vengeance and death. This was no place for angels.

“It doesn’t matter anyway,” he sighed, turning away from a reaction he couldn’t bear to watch. “After my…outburst, Uther took the brother.” He winced as the gasp came from behind him. “If the girl isn’t still in her cell in the morning, if she doesn’t go on the pyre tomorrow-” He stopped, the words unbearable, but he had to force himself to say it to accept the truth in them. “Uther will kill him instead.”

There was a scrape, a groan of wood.

“Oh my god,” Merlin breathed, and Arthur turned to find him seated at the table, eyes moving over the table as if reading words carved into the surface. “That- That’s-” He let out a shuddering breath, his mouth closing, and then set his jaw as he turned to Arthur again. “No, there must be something,” he defied as he stood, and Arthur couldn’t help but admire the fortitude, futile as it was. “Where’s the boy? Can we get to him?”

Arthur shook his head. “Uther won’t tell anyone where he’s keeping him, but I suspect it’s in the dungeons, the old ones below the eastern wall. Those are entirely cold iron,” he added in answer to the question in the crease of Merlin’s brow.

The man deflated, a bitter grimace on his face, as if this, of all things, was the final dash of the final hope. Once again, however, Merlin rallied. “You have to talk to him,” he ordered, moving in front of Arthur again. “You have to convince him.”

“Merlin,” Arthur said, exhausted. “Merlin, I tried. He-”

“Then try harder!”

Arthur started, blinking as he neck snapped back away from the shout.

Merlin’s face was twisted in anger, but the overriding pain and desperation was spoken clearly by his eyes. “He can’t get away with this. He _can’t_! These are _children_ , Arthur!” He waved a hand back toward the door, and Arthur winced.

As if he hadn’t already known that, as if he hadn’t already mentally catalogued all the birthdays, weddings, children, and grandchildren that were never going to be.

“We can’t let them die!”

“You think I didn’t try!?” Arthur exploded, angry at all the wrong people. “Why do you think I’m locked up in here, Merlin? Because I politely disagreed?”

Merlin’s eyes hardened, but Arthur didn’t give him the chance to speak.

“There are diplomats here, Merlin! People from all across the five kingdoms, some from even further. And they _all_ heard my father threaten to disinherit me if I spoke out again.”

The servant looked surprised, perhaps even verging on shock, but he still didn’t look convinced, so Arthur continued.

“If that happens, how long do you think it would take them to rally their armies? How long do you think Camelot would survive under an assault from that many sides? We can’t afford to look weak!”

“Weak?” Merlin said quietly, but it still stopped Arthur dead, and he could swear he felt himself physically shrinking under Merlin’s disparaging gaze. “You don’t want to look weak?”

“I- It’s not about me,” Arthur stammered, sick at himself. “It’s about the kingdom. If I’m no longer heir to the throne, if Camelot falls into enemy hands…” He faded away, shaking his head down at the ground. “I have to protect my people, Merlin,” he said, falling back into his duty, his birthright, his burden and honor. “I can’t do that if I’m not king.”

Merlin’s face was stone, his eyes something even colder. “And what about her?” he asked, turning his head just slightly to indicate back toward the door. “Is she not _your people_? Do you not have to protect _her_?”

Arthur winced, Merlin’s soft tone a battle-axe. “I-I have a greater responsibility, Merlin. I can’t throw everything away for-” He stopped, the planned words too heartless to force from his lips.

“For a sorcerer?” Merlin surmised, and Arthur could do nothing but watch as something died in his servant then, a flicker of hurt crossing his face before he was staring at Arthur like a stranger.

“No,” Arthur argued, and, even though it was true, he knew Merlin was already decided. “For one person. Any person. I have to put the needs of the whole above the needs of the individual.”

Merlin scoffed, but there was no teasing in it, only bitter disgust. “That is such bullshit,” he said without anger, his eyes screaming disappointment. “You hide behind your crowns and your titles, so, when the time comes, you can make the easy decision and pretend it was noble. But it’s not, Arthur.” He took a small step closer, staring straight into Arthur’s face like he could read every dark dirty corner of his soul. “It’s cowardice,” he said sharply, and Arthur turned his eyes away. Merlin rattled out a breath, and, when Arthur looked back to him, his jaw was set, his eyes tight, and he swallowed hard. “I thought you were different,” he creaked, shaking his head, eyes blinking back betrayal.

The back of Arthur’s neck bristled defensively, not because Merlin was wrong, but because he was right, and Arthur had had enough of it pummeled into him by his own conscience. He didn’t need Merlin looking at him like he had personally shattered every last hope he had.

“Different?” Arthur spat, even just repeating the word stinging a bit, but he tried not to let it show. “Different from what? From you?” He waved a hand at Merlin’s chest, and the man’s eyes flashed at the dismissal. “Because, yes, Merlin, I _am_ different from you. You have no _idea_ what it’s like to have the responsibility I do; you will never understand what it means to wear this crown,” he hissed, pointing up at the golden circlet over his hair. “I have to make the hard decisions. _Me_. That is _my_ responsibility, _my_ duty to _my_ people, and I _have_ to put that first, even above myself.”

Merlin didn’t appear to be growing any more sympathetic, instead just looking at Arthur like he was breaking him more and more with every word, and somehow this made Arthur so angry he wanted to scream.

“So how dare you, how _dare_ you tell me it’s cowardice? How dare you even _pretend_ to know the burden of those crowns and titles you so easily dismiss? You know _nothing_ of what it is to be noble!” He was shouting now, and Merlin staggered a step back, eyes wide open and aching. Arthur breathed heavily, watching the deep blue eyes searching between his. He closed his mouth, set his jaw. “You’re just a servant,” he almost spat, but his voice broke. “What do you know of honor?”

For a moment, he thought Merlin might fall. He recoiled as if Arthur had struck him, mouth agape as he stared, still searching for something within Arthur’s face. Scant seconds later, however, he closed his mouth, the sorrow in his eyes icing over, and there was nothing in its place. He gave Arthur a nod that was more with his eyes than anything else, and then turned, evidently dismissing himself for the door.

Arthur’s stomach writhed in panic as he watched Merlin’s back getting farther and farther away, and he wondered if he would wake up, if this would all be a nightmare, because he could never have really _said_ that, could he? “Merlin, stop,” he said, at least at first, but his voice rose as the man’s steps did not even hitch. “Merlin, wait. Merlin!”

A twitch of his fingers against his thigh, a small shift of his head that might have been a wince, but he did not stop.

“Stop! Merlin!” He stepped forward, boot hitting hard on the stone. “Dammit, Merlin, I am your _future king_!”

“No.”

Arthur’s anger fell from him in an instant, shattering on the floor in a cloud of shame and regret as Merlin turned, eyes glassy, expression taut.

“You’re your father’s son,” he said, voice thin and brittle, and he held Arthur’s gaze for a long, heart-stalling moment before he blinked, turning and disappearing out the door with a closing click that was so loud with finality, Arthur shuddered.

He wanted to shout after him, tell him that was the same thing, but he knew it wasn’t, not really, and instead he moved on shaking knees to the table, barely managing to pull a chair out before he collapsed onto it. His breathing was ragged, coming in quicker and quicker gasps and heaves, and his heart was barely managing to keep up, aching under the strain. Arthur clutched a hand over it, gripping tightly into the fabric of his tunic as he squeezed his eyes shut, willing the building burn away. The image of Merlin turning back filled the dark canvas of his eyelids, a little sliver of silver peeking out from beneath the laces of his blue tunic, and, with that, Arthur was undone, the added weight of his mother’s disapproval crushing down on him as he wondered how it was possible to feel so much pain without any blood to show for it.


	2. Chapter 2

Merlin did not cry.

He scoured the castle, muttering spell after spell in search of the young boy. He visited Kilgharrah, only to be told the cold iron would shield the child from any attempts by them to locate him. He tore through every book, scroll, and forgotten diary Gaius owned, looking for a solution, but he did not cry. Crying was for after, when the battle was won—or at least over—and the time came to bury your dead, but no one was going to die, not this time, so Merlin would not cry.

But the day stretched on around him, time impervious to his will to slow it, and it was long-dark by the time he emerged from the library, locking up as Geoffrey had told him to when he’d gone to bed and left Merlin with the key. He climbed the stairs slowly, wincing at his cramping muscles, and was nearly halfway down the corridor to Arthur’s rooms before he remembered, freezing in the flickering light of a torch.

He wasn’t going to Arthur’s room. Not ever again.

Once again pushing aside the barbed betrayal that had been prickling at his heart all day, he turned, going back the way he had come toward the servant’s staircase. Nearing the end of the hall, however, he stopped, a light from under a door catching his attention.

It was too bright to be a candle, though it did flicker like one, dancing across the polished stones, and Merlin realized two things simultaneously: There was a fire, and it was in Morgana’s room.

“Morgana!” he shouted, magic unlocking the door before his hand reached it, and it swung open, hitting the wall behind as he charged in.

Morgana awoke with a start, her eyes blazing with firelight as they blinked, and then she turned to the column of flame that was now overtaking her curtains. With a shout, she leapt from her bed, fumbling backward as if being pursued by some unseen figure, and her back hit hard against her wardrobe before she slumped down to the floor in front of it, shaking as her eyes fixed on the flames.

“Morgana!” Merlin called again, concerned about more than just the fire now, and he quickly dealt with that with a jug of water that had been sitting on the table, no doubt left by Gwen to quench a midnight thirst. Breathing heavily with adrenaline, Merlin searched over the charred fabric, watching for any signs of embers, but there were none, and he turned away, rushing back across the room. “Morgana,” he said, trying to soothe through his fear, and the water jug slid from his grasp with a metallic thunk as he released his hands to take hers, kneeling in front of the trembling woman. “Morgana, it’s alright,” he continued. “It’s out, the fire’s out. There’s nothing to be-”

Morgana looked up, her whole body quivering, and it was then Merlin saw what he could scarcely believe. Morgana’s eyes hadn’t been reflecting the fire at all. They were glowing gold, swirling and twisting in reflection of her terror, and Merlin felt his own eyes stretch wide, his mouth falling open.

Morgana whimpered, staring at him a moment longer before dropping her head once more. “I knew it,” she wavered, shaking her head. “I knew it. I have it, don’t I?” She lifted her face again, the gold dimming, but still very much there. “I have magic.”

The desperation in her expression made Merlin force his tongue to act. “I- I don’t-”

“You _saw_ it, Merlin!” she shrieked, and the gold flashed brighter in her rage. “I saw the look on your face! And-And the fire-” She looked away, across to where the damp curtain-remnants still dripped, and her face crumpled with misery once more. “I wanted them to be nightmares,” she whispered, shaking her head down at her knees. “I just wanted them to be nightmares.”

Merlin’s head was still spinning, and he tried to anchor it to something in the midst of this impossible new information. Then again, was it really so absurd? And, all of a sudden, Merlin knew he had, in his own way, always known about Morgana, known in those faint little tugs that drew him to her whenever she was near, that feeling of having met her, of having known her. He gripped her hands tighter within his own.

“But then they got worse and worse, and now this!” She twitched their combined hands toward the charred wall. “I can’t control it, Merlin,” she whispered, tremors growing violent through her body. “I can’t control it, and it’s only a matter of time before Arthur finds out, or-or Uther, and then- and then-” She broke off into a quivering sob, her shoulders shaking with it, and then abruptly stilled, looking up at Merlin with pure terror. “He’ll kill me,” she said, her voice a breath of dawning realization. “Oh, god, Merlin, he’ll kill me!” She was shaking her head again, eyes roving all over. “He’ll throw me in jail! He’ll hang me!”

“Morgana,” Merlin hissed, both in pain and censure, as her fingers were digging into his forearms and there were also armored footsteps and shouts approaching from the corridor.

“Or tie me to the pyre,” she continued, oblivious to his pleas and the threat closing in, and a faint breeze started to quiver through the room as she ranted on, eyes growing golden once again. “He’ll burn me alive, Merlin! Burn me like all the others. Like that poor girl, oh god, that poor girl!”

“Morgana!” Merlin begged, shaking her a little, but the room was doing enough of that for him, Morgana’s untamed magic rattling the doors of the cupboards and shifting trinkets off of tables with a smash. “Morgana, please, the guards are coming!”

“It could’ve been me,” she continued, unhindered. “It could’ve been me. Oh god.” She paused, a calm sorrow falling over her as quickly as thunderstorms whip over fields in the summer. “I’m going to die,” she whispered, and there was no question in it, no fear, only an acknowledgement of the fact, and Merlin couldn’t stand for it.

“No, you’re not,” he snarled, vicious in his denial, and she blinked at him, startled. “You are _not_ going to jail, you are _not_ going on the pyre, and you are _not_ going to die! _No one_ is going to die!”

“My lady!?” came a shout from beyond the door, the clanging of armor and spears now clearly audible, and without a flicker of hesitation, without so much as a twitch of reticence, Merlin leaned back, lifting a hand to the entrance.

A chair flew across the room at his summons, jamming itself beneath the handle as it wedged the door shut, and he slowly looked back to Morgana, no effort made to hide the gold he could feel still burning in his gaze.

Morgana’s eyes were green again and wide, and she looked, for the first time since Merlin had stepped in, fully and completely aware. “You- You’re-” She stammered, lips quivering around the words.

Merlin nodded. “Yes,” he added, and all the air seemed to leave her in a stretched sigh, “I have magic, have since I was born, and trust me when I tell you we are going to figure this out, and I am going to help you, but right now I need you to focus because those men are about to come through that door and think I’m assaulting you, and I’d really rather not have to kill anyone tonight.”

“What- Kill- Merlin-”

“My lady!”

The door burst inward just as Merlin launched away from Morgana, pulling her to standing as he did. The chair skittered away to fall limply on its side, and the room was suddenly full of red-cloaked figures clanking in boots and mail.

As to be expected, the first thing that happened was him being grabbed, gripped firmly by the arm and yanked painfully back to one of the guard’s sides.

“What did you do?” the man snarled in his face, and Merlin turned away from the spray of spit. “What did you do to her? ANSWER ME BOY!” He shook Merlin roughly, counterintuitively making speech impossible, and then there was another voice shouting.

“Let him go! LET HIM GO!” Morgana ripped the knight’s hand away, pushing at his shoulder, and, though Merlin doubted she really hit that hard, the man still staggered back. “Get away from him, all of you!” She eyed each one of them with a glare that could freeze hell itself, and a few of the younger knight’s shifted subtly back instinctively. “Merlin was trying to _help_ me,” she snapped, stretching an arm back to place a hand on his wrist, gripping in assurance. “There was an intruder,” she began, and the men instantly snapped to attention. “He climbed in through the window. Merlin heard me scream and came running, but the man got away. Ran down the corridor,” she concluded, gesturing outside and to the right.

“How long ago was this?” the knight clearly in charge said, his dark eyes sharp, but not at all doubting.

“Not a minute before you arrived,” she said primly. “He can’t have got far. Merlin hit him quite hard, and he was bleeding rather profusely from a wound on his head.”

The knight nodded, casting Merlin an assessing glance that he frankly found offensive, and then turned back to his men. “You heard her! I want the entire castle searched! Wake everyone if you have to; this man must be found!”

There was a chorus of assent, and then they were gone, trampling down the stone with a din that would make waking everyone a moot point. As if to prove the point, another figure burst into the room just as the last of the procession were leaving, the blond hair twisted and matted with sleep providing a stark contrast to the fierce gaze and drawn sword.

“Morgana?!” Arthur cried as he saw her, rushing forward, sword held back at his side.

Merlin backed away from their embrace, trying to blend into the hangings around Morgana’s bed and ignore the tight twist in his stomach.

“Are you alright? I heard screaming, and, did I hear right? There was an intruder?”

Morgana nodded, but her eyes flicked to Merlin for a moment. It was the only tell of her deception, however, court-raised as she was. “Yes. Through the window.” She gestured to the dangling curtains, Arthur’s eyes following. “It’s lucky he knocked over the candle, or else I may not have been alerted.”

“What did he take?” Arthur asked, eyes roving over the evidence of Morgana’s magic, which would appear to be a rather thorough ransacking to anyone who didn’t know.

“Nothing,” Morgana replied, shaking her head. “Merlin stopped him before he could get very far.” She waved a hand out in gesture at where Merlin was trying to be invisible, and, just for a moment, he considered doing exactly that, but then Arthur’s eyes were on him and he was trapped, skin prickling and throat closing.

Arthur blinked at him, an unfathomable expression crossing his face, but it was clearly hurt in his eyes. “Oh,” he murmured, and Merlin found he couldn’t look away, no matter how loud his mind was screaming at him that he needed to. “Good, that’s- that’s good. That he was here.”

Morgana looked between them, brow creasing. “Yes,” she drawled, and Merlin flicked a glance to meet her suspicious one, breaking the hold on Arthur with the moment’s diversion.

He coughed, ducking his eyes as he turned away. “The window, you said?” he muttered, pointing at the glass, and he hurried toward it when Morgana nodded.

She gave Merlin a quizzical look around Arthur’s turned back, but Merlin only flicked a glance sideways in response. Her eyes narrowed and flashed, promising he wouldn’t get away with silence forever, but, for now, they had more pressing concerns.

“How did he get up here?” Arthur asked, leaning his head out the glass, which, fortunately, had been rattled open with Morgana’s tirade. “Did you see a rope? A climbing hook?” He peered down the side of the castle wall, eyes narrowing as he searched the dark courtyard below.

“I-” Morgana glanced at Merlin, panicked, and Merlin shook his head. “No, nothing like that,” Morgana replied, miraculously only a little stiff. “He-He must’ve scaled down. From the battlements overhead.” She looked to Merlin again, raising her eyebrows, and Merlin flashed a small smile and nodded.

It was a good story. The battlements were a short distance above Morgana’s rooms. It wouldn’t be difficult at all for someone to tie a rope off of one of the stone outcroppings overhead and scale the short distance to her window. Of course, they would need rope for that.

The second before Arthur turned his face skyward, Merlin’s eyes flashed gold.

“Aha!” Arthur cried in triumphant, leaning out to stretch an arm up the wall, and Merlin turned, finding Morgana gaping at him.

He shrugged, and she began shaking her head, incredulous.

Arthur grunted, thumping back on his soles, his hands empty when they reappeared inside the window. “It’s attached to the wall up above; I can’t unhook it from here. Looks like he tied it off and dropped down to the ledge. I’ll get some men and go up there, see what we can find. You,” he pointed at Morgana, the forceful tone more brother than prince, “stay here.” His commanding demeanor faltered somewhat, and he indicated his shift to speaking to Merlin with only a glimmer of a glance. “Stay with her,” he mumbled, and Merlin acquiesced with a nod he wasn’t sure was seen, as he couldn’t actually manage to make eye contact.

A moment later, Arthur was gone, leaving Merlin with only Morgana’s fiery glare for company.

“What the _hell_ was that!?” she sputtered, and Merlin flinched in spite of himself.

“What?” he murmured, shrugging a single shoulder.

“All of it!” Morgana lifted her arms as she railed, spreading the limbs wide to indicate the scope of his idiocy. “The staring and the silence _and the rope_! How did you even _do_ that!? And what on _earth_ is going on with you and Arthur? And don’t tell me it’s nothing or I’ll throw _you_ out that window!”

Merlin didn’t doubt it. “What do you think, Morgana?” he sighed, pinching at his nose, the lull of adrenaline giving way to a headache. “I went to talk to him about-about the girl, and…”

Morgana grimaced. “Didn’t go well?”

Merlin barked a laugh without humor. “You could say that,” he murmured, running a hand up the back of his head.

Morgana nodded thoughtfully, her eyes trailing down to the ground, and then suddenly gasped, turning back to him with eyes like feasting trays. “Does he _know_!?” she asked, a little louder than Merlin would have liked.

“Will you keep your voice down!” he hissed, and Morgana locked her lips closed with a sharp glare. “No, of course Arthur doesn’t know,” he snapped. “You think I’d still be here if he did? He’d run me through where I stood!”

Morgana blinked, her face draining of anger. “Merlin,” she said softly, shaking her head, “oh, Merlin, you don’t really think that’s true, do you?”

Merlin scoffed. “He’s willing to let that little girl die,” he spat. “Why would I be any different?”

“Because you are,” Morgana answered, stepping forward and placing her palm on his arm. “He wouldn’t let you die, Merlin, you must know that. He’d never let you die.”

Merlin turned his eyes away, the faith in her eyes only carving further into the hole where his hope had once been.

After a silence, Morgana dropped her eyes, her hand sliding away along with them. “Is there nothing to be done then?” she asked, and Merlin was glad to follow the shifting topic.

He shook his head. “Uther has taken the little brother as leverage. If the girl isn’t in her cell tomorrow…” He didn’t finish.

Morgana nodded. “And the boy?”

“No one knows where he is,” Merlin answered, grinding his fingers into his forehead. “Arthur”—his voice cracked a little over the name—“said he thought he might be in the eastern dungeons, but those are apparently entirely cold iron.”

The light further dimmed in Morgana’s eyes. She looked away, out the window, but her gaze seemed to stretch much further than that. “I want to see her,” she said softly, the words almost able to be mistaken for a rustle of wind. “Before- Before.” She turned, eyes glassy but determined. “Will you come with me?”

Merlin was nodding before he’d entirely registered the question. “Of course, my lady, but there are guards posted everywhere. Uther has given strict instructions that no one is to see the girl.”

“He’ll make an exception for me,” she said with a confidence no mere mortal would dare argue with. “And Merlin?” She smiled, tilting her head fondly at him. “I think we can dismiss with the pleasantries. You know, considering...” She gestured to the surrounding mess, and, in spite of the awful weight in his chest, Merlin chuckled.

“I suppose you’re right,” he shrugged, running a hand through his hair as he sighed, compartmentalizing for the moment. “Should we clean this up?”

Morgana sighed, glancing around the room. “Probably. I think they’re done in here, considering the scene of the crime is now on the roof.”

Merlin blushed at her lifting eyebrow, ducking his head.

She made no comment, however, only giving him a faint smirk, and then bent to begin gathering up papers.

“Oh, don’t bother,” Merlin interrupted, bending down to usher her back to standing. “I can do it.”

Morgana’s brow furrowed, and then immediately smoothed again as her eyes shot wide with shock.

In the blink of an eye, or at least a flash of them, the room was righting itself. Chairs scraped back to position, papers and books fluttered back to their shelves, and Morgana’s mirror pulled itself from the floor, shards fusing together as it settled on the dressing table.

Merlin tilted his head, surveying the progress. “Do you think the bad luck still counts if you put it back together?” he asked, but, as opposed to answering, Morgana thumped him hard on the arm. “Ow!”

“Are you _insane_!?” she spluttered. “What if someone comes back! There’s no way we can explain how everything got tidied up so fast, or how a mirror got _un_ broken!”

Merlin clutched at his arm in as masculine a way as possible. “Morgana, calm down,” he urged, but she only puffed at him. “They’ll be out searching for the invisible intruder for hours yet; no one will know when we cleaned the room. And I’m fairly certain the knights had bigger priorities than checking if your mirror was broken, and Arthur won’t know the difference even if he _did_ notice, he’ll just think you got another one. Here, if you want-“ He turned his eyes to the desk, and the mirror shot out to meet him, slipping into his grasp as Morgana started and took a small leap back. “I’ll change it a little. See?”

A thin cord of gold appeared, growing from the base as it twisted of the handle. Intricately carved leaves sprung from the stem, and, upon reaching the oval of the mirror, it split in two, one side stretching only a short distance up the edge, while the other reached just over the curve at the top, several golden flowers Merlin thought might be bluebells springing out of the golden strand.

Morgana had slowly grown closer through the process, eyes alight with wonder as she peered down at the twisting metal, and, when it stopped and the embers of Merlin’s eyes dimmed, she reached out with a tentative hand. “Gods,” she breathed, taking it gingerly when Merlin proffered it. “It’s-It’s beautiful!”

Merlin smiled, unable to help it when the woman so many thought of as cold was looking at him with a child’s awe. “I’m glad,” he answered, and she beamed.

A moment later, however, her expression dropped, hitching slightly as she turned the mirror over in her hands. She looked up at him, a question in the skeptical curve of her brow.

“What?” Merlin prompted, frowning under her scrutiny.

Morgana lowered the mirror to her side, turning properly to face him. “Just how powerful are you, Merlin?” she asked without malice or fear, only curiosity pinching her features.

Merlin blinked his eyes away, shrugging in a twitch. “I-I don’t really know,” he murmured, but Morgana was having none of it.

“Well, what can you do?” she pressed, shifting to fall into sight of his averted eyes.

Merlin, once again, shrugged. “What do you need?”

Morgana blinked at him. Blinked again. “Merlin, what are you trying to say? That you’ve never _not_ been able to do something?”

Merlin thought, delving all the way back to his childhood with- He swallowed hard, and then shook his head. “No,” he muttered, avoiding her steel-green gaze, “there are some things I can’t do.”

“Like what?” Morgana questioned, and he wished she wouldn’t.

With a wry chuckle that was more for the sake of his sanity than anything else, he answered. “Like bring people back from the dead.”

Morgana’s mouth popped open, eyes widening with alarm, but she quickly recovered herself. “I’m sorry,” she said softly, though she could not know for what, and yet it still helped as she placed a hand on his arm.

Merlin took a moment to stare at his boots before he nodded. “We should go,” he said, brisk with purpose. “Can’t be more than an hour or two before dawn.”

Morgana paled, but her answering nod was determined, and she moved away to place the mirror back on the desk before rejoining him by the door. “So,” she began as they quietly made their way toward the king’s chambers, “apart from tonight, where else have you…interfered?”

Merlin stifled a grin. “What makes you think I have?” he replied, daring a sidelong look when he thought he had control of himself.

Morgana gave him a disparaging look. “Alright, I’ll just ask, shall I?” she quipped, flicking her eyebrows in challenge. “That first night? With Arthur and that woman?”

Merlin bit his lip. “I may have…helped things along a bit.”

“ _Merlin_ ,” Morgana bristled, practically radiating frustration, and Merlin laughed.

“Alright, fine,” he chuckled, lifting his hands in mock surrender. “I sort of…slowed down time.”

“ _What!?_ ” she hissed, casting a glance around for eavesdroppers, but they were speaking quietly enough, it likely wouldn’t have mattered. “You slowed down _time_? You can _do_ that!?”

Merlin nodded, blushing a little, and Morgana turned back to their path, mouth open and head shaking dreamily.

“My god, Merlin,” she breathed, turning to look up at him once more. “You’re something different altogether, aren’t you?”

Merlin had no idea how to begin to reply.

Within minutes of greeting the king, Merlin waiting—definitely not _hiding_ , as Morgana kept insisting—outside the chambers, Morgana had his leave to visit the prisoner.

“With a guard present at all times!” he snapped, sticking his head out into the corridor after her. “And stay outside the cell. Don’t let her get to close to you.”

“I assure you, my lord, I will perfectly safe,” Morgana replied, bowing her head. “Besides, I’ll have Merlin with me.” She flashed a dazzling smile back at him, Uther following her gaze, but his expression was significantly less impressed as he looked Merlin up and down, lip twitching in its restraint to curl.

Merlin forced his mouth into a curve as he bowed.

“Yes, well,” Uther murmured, leaning back into his chambers, “remember what I said about the guards.” The door clicked in front of them as he shut it, evidently acting as their dismissal.

Merlin twisted to Morgana, glaring.

She batted her eyelashes at him. “What?” she said coyly, tilting her head.

Merlin merely scoffed and started off ahead of her, leaving her to giggle briefly before catching up.

The remainder of their journey was taken up by Morgana asking him question after question, guessing where his magic had been involved.

“The griffin?”

“Put a spell on the sword so it could pierce the skin.”

“But you didn’t need magic to _use_ the sword?”

“I am capable of handling a blade, you know.”

“How would I know that? I’ve never seen it, and Arthur’s never mentioned.”

“Well, it’s not the type of thing I’d want Arthur to know, is it?”

“Why not?”

“Because he’d get all weird about me slitting his throat while he sleeps or something.”

“Fair enough. Lancelot?”

“Healed him.”

“What, completely!?”

“No, just enough. It would’ve been suspicious without a scar.”

“But you could’ve healed him completely?”

“Probably. I’ve done it before.”

“Right. Of course you have. What about the other villagers?”

“Most of that was just medicine. Maybe the odd enchantment here or there to help them sleep.”

“Valiant?”

“What about him?” Merlin stopped, standing in the archway just before the dungeon stairs as he reached out to pluck a torch off the wall.

“When you were poisoned,” Morgana clarified, halting beside him. “Is that why you’re still alive?”

Merlin shook his head, frowning as he stared down into the dark stairwell. “No,” he mused, watching the firelight catch in cracks along the stone, “I have no idea how I’m still alive.”

Morgana interrupted his thoughts with a hand on his shoulders, and he turned to find her smiling. “Well, however it happened,” she said softly, and, for the briefest of moments, her fingers lifted up to graze his cheek, “I’m glad you’re still here.”

Merlin stood, dumbstruck, but Morgana only smiled brighter before pulling away and heading down the stairs. He rattled his head, putting off piecing _that one_ together for a while, and scampered down to her, holding the torch aloft.

“My lady,” the guard said when they approached, bending from his waist. “We were informed of your arrival. The prisoner is in the third cell on the right.”

“Thank you, sir knight,” Morgana replied with a nod, and Merlin was relieved to see she didn’t know all their names either.

The man bowed again, leading them around the corner, and Merlin’s heart sank in time with Morgana’s muffled gasp.

Merlin knew by now the girl was nine, but she looked even younger still than that. Her mousy brown hair clung to her face in greasy ribbons where she cowered in the corner, huddled in a dirt-streaked dress that was frayed along the hem, although it looked like it may once have been blue. Tear tracks ran pink and damp down her cheeks, and her brown eyes bulged out at them, lingering longest on the sword-strapped knight, who paused beside the bars.

“Open it,” Morgana ordered, nodding toward the lock.

The guard hesitated, fiddling his fingers in the keys on his belt. “My lady, we’ve been given orders-”

“And now you’re getting new ones,” Morgana snapped, and the familiarity hit Merlin like a punch, the air forced from his lungs as a cold vice gripped them.

But now was not the time, and he rallied, locking his knees as he stood resolutely straight behind Morgana.

“Yes, of-of course, my lady,” the guard mumbled, thrusting the key into the lock and turning it quickly. With a bow, he stepped aside, pulling the door open in front of him.

Morgana nodded her thanks as she stepped to the opening. “Leave us,” she said, forceful enough to be an order, gentle enough so as not to draw spite. She turned slowly to face the knight, a sad smile on her lips. “I have been instructed to perform an examination of the girl, and it may get rather… _sensitive_.”

The knight’s eyes widened in understanding, but then flicked a curious glance at Merlin.

“Merlin is Gaius’ assistant,” Morgana explained, nodding to him. “He is here to offer his opinion as a physician.”

The man appeared to be convinced, looking warily at the girl in front of them, as if suddenly afraid he may catch pox. Or magic. “Of course, my lady,” he said, bowing again. “I will only be around the corner should you need anything.”

Morgana smiled as she inclined her head to him, and then watched his back as he left. They stood in silence for a moment longer, ensuring his footfalls continued to retreat. She then turned to the girl, stepping forward quickly and lowering her voice. “Are you alright?”

The girl blinked up at her, a crease between her brows. “You were there,” she said, and then coughed as her voice came out raspy. “In the hall. You tried to stop them.”

Morgana looked heartbroken, but nodded, kneeling down in front of the girl. Her hand extended, but the girl instinctively recoiled, and Morgana withdrew it back to her knee. “I did,” she replied solemnly. “I am sorry it was not enough.”

The girl looked aged far beyond her years as she smiled ruefully, shaking her head. “It was not to be helped, my lady,” she said. “I knew the punishment for my crime.”

Morgana seemed to want very much to say something, but she held her tongue, dropping her head, and the girl looked over her shoulder to Merlin.

“Are you really here to examine me?” she asked, eyes casting between them skeptically.

Merlin smiled reassuring at her as he shook his head. “No,” he said softly, “we just came to make sure you were alright.”

“Oh,” the girl murmured, adjusting the folds of her skirt as if to stand, and Morgana rose off the floor to give her the room. She brushed dirt from her back, tucking her hair behind her ears as she stood small and fragile in front of them. “I’m- I’m alright. I suppose.” She shrugged, and bile rose in Merlin’s throat.

It wasn’t right. It wasn’t _fair_.

“Do you- I mean- Could you-” She grew shy, biting at her lip.

“Speak freely, child,” Morgana prompted with a soft smile. “You are among friends.”

The girl looked between them a moment, creases of her forehead gradually unfurrowing. “My brother,” she said finally, eyes turning earnest. “Do you know what happened to my brother? Is he safe?”

They both nodded quickly, and some of the tension left the girl’s body.

“He is being held in the cells in another part of the castle,” Merlin spoke, and the girl turned to him, alarmed. “He has not been harmed,” he added hurriedly, “he is merely being held to ensure no one tries to release you.”

The girl nodded morosely, looking down at the floor. “I heard the guards talking about it,” she sighed. “If I am not here to-to die tomorrow”—she choked, and Merlin winced—“then he will be executed in my place. Is that true?”

After a moment’s hesitation, both Morgana and Merlin nodded.

A rattling breath left the girl, and she turned away toward the wall. She stared at for a long length, her hands coiled, and then seemed to compose herself, turning to them slowly, her eyes damp. “He’ll be alright?” she asked, and it broke Merlin’s heart, a child forced to be so brave. “If I die, he’ll be alright?”

Morgana was quick to nod, rushing forward and bending to take the girl’s hands. “I _promise_ you,” she urged, and Merlin blinked his eyes away, feeling as if he were intruding. “Nothing will happen to your brother.”

The girl bowed her head, biting hard at her lip. “Thank you, my lady,” she said brokenly, and Merlin watched as Morgana’s hands tightened harder around hers. She breathed into the silence settling between them, and then shook her head. “I-I didn’t mean it,” she spluttered, eyes lifting up between Morgana and him, and Merlin slowly drew closer at the small invitation. “I-I was just afraid. I was afraid and it just…”

“Happened,” Merlin concluded, and the girl swallowed down at the ground as she nodded.

“I’ve never done anything like that before,” she continued earnestly, like she had something to convince them of. “I-I was so weak afterwards, I thought I might faint. I-I don’t- My-” She looked between them helplessly.

“Your magic isn’t very strong?” Merlin queried softly, bending slightly where he stood at Morgana’s shoulder now.

The girl looked up at him, momentarily frightened at the mention, and then blinked, her expression relaxing as she nodded. Quite suddenly, a sob wracked her body, and she shook within Morgana’s grip.

Merlin knelt instinctively, his shoulder brushing against Morgana’s as he reached out the opposite arm to steady the girl’s shoulder.

She shook her head, eyes screwed shut. “I’m scared,” she whispered, choked, and Merlin dropped his head, unable to look her grief in the eye. “I-I don’t want to die. I don’t want to die!”

“Shh, shh,” Morgana soothed, tugging the girl to her chest, and she wrapped her arms around her, the girl clinging to the front of her dress as she sobbed openly. Morgana looked at Merlin over the girl’s hair as she stroked it, a pleading question buried somewhere within the sorrow and anger.

Merlin’s lips parted, his eyes blinking in hesitation, and though Morgana didn’t move, her eyes seemed to stare harder at him in persuasion. Of course, it was no longer needed once the girl spoke again.

“Will it hurt?” she asked, barely a whisper, and, as Merlin looked down, he found one tear-reddened eye peering up at him out of the cage of Morgana’s arms.

He shook his head. “No,” he said, and Morgana, understanding, leaned back, freeing the girl. “No, it won’t,” Merlin assured. “Not for you.”

The girl looked at him quizzically, tilting her head.

Merlin smiled. “Give me your hands,” he said, holding his own down toward her, palms up.

The girl looked down at the fingers for a moment, a wary crease between her brows, but then slowly complied, watching him curiously all the time.

With another smile of reassurance, he folded his hands over hers, bringing them together to cup her tiny fingers within his own. He felt the spell come to him, felt it flow through his blood down to their combined grip, a faint blue light shining through the gaps as he felt his eyes burn.

The girl gasped softly, but made no move to pull away, merely looking up at Merlin with awe. “You-You have-”

Merlin nodded. “I do,” he replied.

The girl’s eyes widened even further, and she flashed a look to Morgana, terrified.

Morgana shifted at his side, her smiling face coming into view. “It’s alright,” she said. “I know.”

The girl blinked at her, shocked, but her expression changed to awe as Merlin pulled his hands away, prompting her hands to open into a small cup within his larger ones. She gasped, looking down at the small blue butterfly leisurely stretching its wings within her palms. “How- How did you-” she stammered, gently lifting the creature closer to her breast as Merlin moved his hands to his lap.

“It’ll stay with you,” he said as the butterfly balanced on the tip of one of the girl’s fingers. “Keep the pain away.”

The girl’s lips parted in surprise, and she lowered her hand toward her chest. “I-I won’t feel the fire?” she asked, and Merlin flinched.

“No,” he confirmed softly. He turned a palm up, holding it out, and the butterfly flitted across to the tips of his fingers. “It’s a protection spell. The butterfly- It’s more of a symbol. Something to hold the magic in.” He nudged the creature gently with his mind, and it flapped back over to the girl, spiraling around her face for a moment before settling over her heart. As it stilled, blue wings glinting in the moonlight, it looked almost like a brooch, something that would pass unnoticed on the blue of her dress. “You won’t feel any pain,” he finished, and she gingerly stroked at the butterfly, which twitched under her caress.

“Thank you,” she choked, lip quivering as she swallowed hard. She sucked in a breath, looking back up, tears leaking out the inner corners of her eyes. “Will-Will you be there? Tomorrow?” she asked, her glance flicking to include Morgana.

Merlin smiled, but he could feel it was a mournful thing. “I will,” he vowed, and she breathed out in a rush of relief, nodding gratefully.

“As will I,” Morgana assured, placing a hand on the girl’s shoulder, and the child smiled up at her, one hand cupping over the butterfly on her chest.

The girl nodded, her breaths still deep and crackling. “Will my brother be there?” she asked, the indecision clear in her tone.

Merlin and Morgana exchanged an uncertain glance.

“I-I don’t know,” Morgana admitted.

“But we will take care of him if he is,” Merlin added, to which Morgana nodded, and the girl seemed slightly comforted by this.

She nodded at them again, lifting the top of the butterfly’s shield so she could peer down within the cave of her fingers. “It glows,” she said, wonderingly, and Merlin smiled at the small delight.

“Only in the dark,” he replied, and he could see Morgana giving him a curious look out of the corner of his eye.

The girl looked up at him, and the smile on her face almost looked untroubled. “Thank you,” she said, and the earnest whisper hit him like a dagger through the gut.

He could only nod in reply as he stood, Morgana rising a moment later beside him.

The girl rose to her feet, one hand remaining cradled over her chest.

“Have courage,” Morgana whispered, bending down to wrap the girl in her arms once more, planting a kiss to her hair.

The girl nodded, smiling meekly up as Morgana withdrew, and the lady then darted past Merlin, and he caught the tormented expression on her face as she turned away.

Merlin followed her toward the door, but stopped just short of closing it, Morgana’s footsteps retreating away. “You did the right thing,” he said, turning his head back to the girl, who blinked back at him. “You saved many lives today,” he continued, and her eyes widened. “You did nothing wrong.”

The girl smiled ruefully, suddenly ancient. “And yet…” she trailed away, shrugging to the cell around her, and Merlin had nothing to say to that, no words of comfort or faith, only a hollowness that ached down to the soles of his feet and the tips of his fingers.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, but the girl somehow continued to smile.

She nodded in acknowledgement, but did not speak, and that was as defined an end as Merlin could have expected.

He turned away, closing the door with a clang that echoed through the stone halls, and barely noticed Morgana or the guard as he broke past, his footsteps quickening all the while as he let his feet lead the way.

“Merlin!” Morgana called from behind him, her feet clicking hastily on the flagstones. “Merlin, where are you going? Merlin!” She caught him on the arm, spinning him around, and only at the startled look in her eyes did he realize he was crying.

Small rivulets of tears carved their way down his face, burning hot with helpless fury, and, when he spoke, his voice was barely his own, a gritty, gnarled thing he could not recognize. “I can’t do this, Morgana!” he spat, his whole body trembling with restraint. He wanted to bring this castle to the ground, bring Camelot to its knees, let Uther and anyone else who ever stood by watch as their kingdom toppled into ruin, tumbling into the sea of the innocent blood they had shed. “I can’t stay here! I can’t watch these-these _monsters_ play at men!”

“Merlin-” Morgana hissed, her eyes darting worriedly side-to-side, and Merlin swiped at the air, impatient.

“No one will hear,” he muttered. “I’ve enchanted the corridor.”

Morgana gave him a startled look, opening her mouth, but Merlin no longer had the patience.

“I have to go, Morgana,” he muttered, ripping his arm out of her grip as he continued walking.

“Where?” she asked, keeping pace.

“To Arthur,” Merlin replied, voice stiffening over the name. “I quit. I’m not spending another _second_ in this place.”

“What!?” She grabbed his arm again, fingernails biting as they dug into the leather of his coat. “Merlin, no! You can’t leave! What about Gaius? What about me?”

“You’ll be fine,” he said, but he couldn’t look her in the eye. “And Gaius can manage. He’s not nearly as frail as he likes to let on.”

“But you promised!” she bleated, and he turned his face away. “You promised you’d help me!”

“I-I know others. Druids. They can help you,” he offered, but Morgana violently shook her head.

“No, I want _you_ ,” she pleaded, hand shaking desperately at his arm. “I trust _you_.”

“Morgana-”

“How are you ever going to change anything if you just run away?”

Merlin snapped his eyes to her, aghast.

Morgana stared him down, eyes blazing, lips set in a thin line. “You think she’s the only one? That girl?” She waved a hand back down the dark corridor. “Do you think we’re the only people living in fear in Camelot?”

“Then they should all get out too,” Merlin snapped back, making an attempt to jerk himself away, but Morgana held fast.

“Why are you doing this?” she urged, and Merlin tried to twist out of her grip. “Why are you running away?”

“I’m not!” Merlin shouted, and her eyes blew wide, hand recoiling as he ripped himself out of it. “I just can’t do it anymore! I can’t watch people, _my_ people, die, and there’s nothing I can do about it!”

“And how is leaving going to help them?” Morgana challenged, stepping forward, her face in his. “What good would that do?” She sighed desperately, expression softening with earnest. “Merlin, please,” she begged. “Please, you-you could do so much. You could help so many! Look at what you did for that girl.”

“What?” Merlin scoffed. “What good did I do? She’s nine years old, Morgana, and the best I could do was make the flames not hurt when they burn her alive.”

Morgana winced, dropping her head. “What about Arthur?” she said suddenly, and Merlin’s blood ran cold.

“What about him?” he retorted, his voice ice.

Morgana didn’t seem perturbed, stepping forward pleadingly. “He needs you,” she said. “He’d never admit it, but he does. He-He cares for you, Merlin. More deeply than even he knows, I think.”

Merlin swallowed hard, looking away before he dared let himself be weak enough to believe her. “Arthur doesn’t need anyone, least of all me,” he snarled, and Morgana blinked, anxious with concern. Merlin looked her dead in the eye, his insides too cold to feel any remorse. “I’m just a servant.”

She couldn’t possibly have known the depth of the words, but she seemed to be able to guess, and her face twisted with pity before he turned away, making another attempt down the corridor. “Merlin, wait!”

He stopped in spite of himself, but she sounded so fragile, so broken, and he could not shoulder any more guilt tonight.

Slowly, her footsteps came up from behind, and she crossed to stand in front of him, eyes glistening and soft. “I need you,” she quietly urged, and he winced, turning his face aside. “I-I don’t know what to do, Merlin.” She shook her head, her voice choking as she blinked hard. “I’m afraid,” she admitted in a half laugh, shrugging as she looked up to him again. “I’m afraid and I-I need you. I need someone I can trust.”

“Morgana-” Merlin attempted, but she stepped forward, clasping his hands, and his protests faltered.

“I-I understand. About Arthur,” she continued, and Merlin knew his reaction to the name was obvious this time, a clench of his shoulders and twitch of his eyelids. “I know he must have hurt you. But-But we can figure something out. You don’t have to leave. You can- You can work for me! We’ll switch you to my service! No one will question it, what with winter coming on. Everyone always takes on more servants, and no one will mind you being a man if you’re helping with firewood and hot water and the like. Ladies do it all the time.”

Merlin bowed his head, shaking it at the flagstones. “Morgana, I can’t just-”

“I don’t want you to leave,” she interjected, grip tightening on his hands, and he knew he was lost. “Whatever it takes, whatever we have to do… I just don’t want you to leave.”

He looked up at her, at the hope and fear all intermixed, and found himself helpless to do anything but nod. “Alright,” he said softly, and her entire body seemed to unwind. “Alright, I’ll-I’ll stay. So long as I’m no longer in Arthur’s service.”

Morgana nodded once, quick and official as she withdrew her hands, and then she frowned, the tilt of her head heavy with concern. “What happened? Between you and Arthur?”

Merlin looked away, his eyes focusing on a tapestry some distance down the corridor, a depiction of a knight on a brilliant white steed charging against foes stitched in hues of grey and black. “Nothing,” he answered, and, this time, she let him walk away.

\---

It was cold, a soft snow still fluttering down from the grey sky as Arthur stood beside his father, watching the young girl being led to the pyre. He could not look at her directly, and bowed his head to the side, his eyes instinctively lifting to Merlin’s face where the man was standing behind him.

Merlin stood tall, his eyes rimmed with dark circles, and there was a faint quiver of his lips as the girl stumbled forward, jostled by the knights pushing her along. Arthur could tell the moment he realized he was being watched, his jaw clenching, eyes focusing harder ahead, but he did not look to Arthur, did not acknowledge his presence at all beyond standing in close proximity, as was expected of a servant. Merlin hadn’t looked at him once that morning, hadn’t even spoken to him, and George had brought Arthur his breakfast and helped him dress.

He had not asked after Merlin, had not asked the reason for the change, but now, feeling the cold emanating from Merlin more acutely than the bitter winter wind, he dreaded what the answer would have been.

Arthur turned back to the proceedings, hardly listening to the speech he knew by heart by now, Uther laying out the charges, a weak justification for the sentence about to be carried out. As he spoke, the girl was hoisted up onto the wooden pile, tied tightly with rope by some of Uther’s loyal knights, and Arthur’s fist clenched against his thigh as the child winced.

The girl was clearly frightened, but not panicked—a reaction Arthur could not fathom, but also could not help but admire—and her wide eyes scanned the crowd, searching.

Out of the corner of his eye, Arthur saw Merlin shift just slightly away, bringing himself farther free of the block of Arthur’s shoulder, and the girl’s eyes twitched toward them at the movement, settling on the dark-haired man.

She relaxed, just slightly, her expression tightening with fortitude, and Arthur watched as Merlin subtly lifted his hand, brushing it over his heart. The girl’s eyes glistened even from here, her lips twitching in something that might have been supposed to be a small smile, and then, bafflingly, she gave a small nod.

Arthur knew, of course, that Merlin and Morgana had been to the dungeons the night before. He had expected nothing less, and would have gone himself if his station had permitted it, but he had no idea what had transpired, and he doubted Merlin would be in the mood to tell him. He had not seen Morgana since the evening prior either, but she was here for the execution, in spite of Arthur and Uther’s assurances she need not attend.

She had been adamant, however, and now stood firmly on Uther’s other side, her expression stoic but eyes swimming.

As the torchbearers began to approach, Arthur glanced back, looking past Merlin to where three knights were gathered, a small boy pinned between them.

He could not have been more than six, with a wild mop of auburn hair draping down over his dirt-smeared and tear-streaked face. He shook with sobs, his lungs racking with them, and Arthur ached for him, ached for them all, ached for the world held hostage by a god who would allow such horrible deeds to take place under his eyes.

He turned back just as the fire lit at the base of the pile, and the girl instinctively stretched back away from it, her eyes wide and glittering orange. Arthur looked across to where Morgana turned away, her red eyes meeting his, full of a torment that cut straight through him, like plunging through ice into breath-robbing cold. His gaze then carried up to Uther, who was watching on with determined pride, and Arthur turned his face away, bile rising hot and acrid in his throat. Once again, he sought out Merlin, looking for comfort where it so often resided, but there was none for him there now.

The blue eyes that met his, an instinctive flicker at Arthur’s sudden twist, hardened as soon as their looks connected, and Arthur felt a shame root itself so deeply within his heart, he doubted he would ever dig out all the pieces.

Suddenly there was a shout from within the fire, the girl’s voice breaking clearly through even as she coughed. “Will, don’t!”

“SARAH!”

They both turned, Merlin diving forward from Arthur’s side before the prince himself had time to even understand.

“Sarah, no!” The little boy had broken free, rushing forward toward the growing tower of flame, his eyes wide with horror as they reflected the deadly light.

Merlin had caught him, settling on his knees in the dirt of the courtyard, the boy pulled tight to his chest, though his frail arms still reached out toward his sister from within Merlin’s grasp.

“SARAH!”

“William, don’t,” Merlin said, bending his body forward, wrapping a hand around the boy’s head and holding it fast to his tunic. “Don’t watch. Don’t watch.”

The boy wilted in Merlin’s arms, weeping into him as the sky grew darker and darker, and, all the while, the girl did not scream, her eyes pointing straight up into sky as her throat worked harder to breathe.

The flames hit at the bottom of her dress, catching quickly and obscuring her, but Arthur still heard nothing, an eerie silence falling over the courtyard with only the sounds of crackling flame. He thought for a moment she had disappeared, some merciful form of fate or magic, but then he smelled the potent stench of burning flesh and closed his eyes, disgusted. When he opened them again, they caught on something rising from the flame, a small flash against the sky, and Arthur watched it as it drifted toward them, his hand twitching toward his sword. In the end, however, it was merely a blue butterfly that fluttered its way across the square, seeming to be half made of flame itself as its wings caught in the light. It hovered in front of Merlin for a moment, who was staring at it with a sad sort of knowing Arthur didn’t understand, and then the brunette jostled the sobbing boy in his arms, drawing his attention.

The boy pulled back, blinking tears from his eyes as he looked up at the small creature in awe, and then he held out a hand, a sure gesture, as if he had known the butterfly was going to alight on it a moment later. He stared down at the small blue wings flapping gently as the insect seemed to look up at him, and his eyes filled afresh with tears. He cupped the butterfly in both his hands, bringing it to his chest as a new wave of sobs hit him, but Merlin was there, catching him and pulling him back in again, and Arthur understood, or thought he did, and one look at Merlin’s face was enough to tell him he was right.

Merlin was staring up at him, a challenge in his eyes, a fierceness Arthur had seen lesser versions of on hardened soldiers. He twitched his eyes narrow, daring Arthur to try, and, though he knew not how, he was certain that Merlin would not allow it, would not permit him to bring on any more suffering to this poor boy for his sister’s final act.

Arthur blinked at him, horrified. Surely Merlin knew… Surely he wouldn’t think… This hadn’t been Arthur’s fault, the girl. There had been nothing he could do. He wasn’t his father; he wasn’t a _monster_. In spite of what Merlin had said, Arthur had never imagined, never _dreamt_ he would really believe it, that he would believe him capable of such a heinous act of senseless violence. And yet, looking down at the man before him, Arthur knew he had been wrong. And he had no idea how to fix it.

He looked away, unable to suffer the betrayal in Merlin’s eyes any longer, and turned back to the fire, watching the smoke billowing up in clouds of ash and embers and hoping anyone glancing over would assume that was why his eyes were damp.

\---

A soft knock came to the door just before sunset, and Arthur turned from the window where he had been watching them clear away the remnants of wood and ash.

“Enter,” he bade, and Morgana slipped in, her hair loose and draping long on either side of her drawn face. He stiffened, uncertain what to expect of her appearance, but she smiled weakly at him, abating his fears.

“Arthur,” she said, nodding softly by way of introduction, and then stepped further into the room. “I- There’s something I-I have to tell you.”

Arthur frowned, an unspoken suggestion for her to continue.

She looked lost for a moment, eyes roving around as her mouth opened, words seeming to fail, and then she turned to him, fresh pity in her eyes. “I’ve moved Merlin to my service for the time being,” she said, and he could tell it was gentle, tone meant to soften the blow of the words.

It didn’t.

He heard his small intake of breath as if it had come from someone else, eyes blinking dazedly. “You- What?”

“Gwen needs the extra help through the winter,” Morgana continued, looking down at her hands clasped in front of her. “She has trouble with the water. And the firewood.”

Arthur was shaking his head before she even finished. “No,” he wheezed, and then swallowed, strengthening his voice. “No, you-you can’t. I need- Merlin is my manservant.”

“Arthur-” Morgana plead gently, stepping toward him, hands stretching out.

Arthur rattled his head, growing angry as he retreated from her. “You can’t just- just _take_ him. He’s _my_ servant! I say where he goes!” He didn’t know when he had started breathing so hard, but his fury was there now, simmering thick and hot in his lungs.

“Arthur,” Morgana snapped, eyes hardening as her voice grew firm. “Arthur, he was going to leave.”

Arthur’s arms fell limp to his sides, his entire body feeling suddenly deflated. “He…what?”

Morgana looked at him, expression full of secondary pain. “He was going to leave Camelot,” she said, and Arthur looked away, unable to pull enough air into his lungs. “I- It was the only way I could get him to stay, Arthur. He wouldn’t-” She stopped, but she didn’t need to finish.

“He didn’t want to be with me,” he murmured, and even he didn’t know exactly what he meant. His stomach rebelled against the thought, but he knew now, his suspicions finally confirmed. “He wouldn’t be my servant anymore.” He swallowed hard, turning away to stare aimlessly toward his bed.

“Arthur,” Morgana breathed, and he winced as her hand fell softly on his arm. “Arthur, I’m sure he’ll come around. He just- He just needs time. You… You hurt him,” she finished, trailing off into a whisper.

Arthur’s jaw twitched, his hands clenching. “I-I didn’t mean-”

“I know,” she said, and then she was in front of him, cupping his face in her hands. Her green eyes sparkled slightly, but it appeared she had no more tears to shed. “I know you didn’t. And Merlin will know that too. In time.” She smiled, a small thing that brought little reassurance, but Arthur nodded all the same, the expected response. Morgana withdrew her hands, giving him a small nod in return. “I’ll see you in the morning,” she said, drifting away toward the door, but he remained turned away. “Goodnight, Arthur,” she whispered to his back, and then the metal latch clicked away, followed by a soft creak of the door before it slotted back into place again.

Arthur did not call for supper that night. He did not call for a bath. He caught Gwen in the hallway, her eyes puffed but sympathetic, and told her to inform the kitchen staff to send up no breakfast, that he would take care of it himself, and also to let George know his services would not be required tomorrow. And then he went to bed, or lay in it, anyway, staring up at the blood red canopy overhead as Merlin’s last words played out again and again in his head.

 _You’re your father’s son_.

\---

Merlin’s lungs burned when he reached the cavern, though if that was from the running or the strain of refusing tears, he did not know. He weaved his way through the tunnels, letting the pulses of magic from within guide him, his own leaping and writhing under his skin, an untamable ocean of untapped fury that had been building and coiling all day. He knew he would be expected, knew the news must have reached the small band beneath Camelot, so he did not bother announcing himself before bursting around the corner.

A figure was silhouetted in front of a pedestal, a large bowl resting atop it, the liquid within rippling and glowing with a faint, blue light.

Merlin stood for a moment, suddenly hesitant, and then pushed it aside, stepping forward in two firm strides. “What do I have to do?” he asked, voice shaking with only rage.

In the dark of the cave, Nimueh smiled.

\---

A dark-skinned man sat in the corner of a pub, the other patrons’ eyes skipping over him as he sharpened his dagger, afraid to even look at him. He had been waiting for some time, but, then again, he had been early, the snow thinning out as the winter months were waning in the lowlands, and his horse had not had the trouble he had anticipated. He turned as the door to the pub opened, a gust of cold air rushing in ahead of the new arrival, but it was only the fat butcher back again, returning from taking a piss outside. He scowled at the peasants, so happy in their filth, and wondered again why that woman had asked him to meet her contact in such a place.

“You’re early.”

He started. Sneaking up on him was not an easy feat. Looking up, he saw an old man now standing in front of him, blue eyes sharp from within a mane of white hair. His red robes were travel-worn, but still fine cloth, and he held a wooden staff in a gnarled hand. “The roads were not the hazard I expected,” he replied carefully, but the man merely nodded, sitting down on the opposite side of the table.

“Yes, it has been a short winter. The spring festivals will soon be upon us.” The man looked pointedly into his eyes, and he nodded slightly to show he understood. Carefully, the elder reached within the interior of his robes, pulling out a small satchel that clinked with coins. “It’s all there,” he assured, but did not appear surprised or offended when the parcel was immediately opened, gold carefully tallied. “You remember the terms?”

Myror nodded, tightening the yellow string around the neck of the bag before stowing it in his travelling satchel. “Yes,” he replied, smiling slightly as he lifted his pint to his lips, drinking on the stranger tonight. “Kill the king.”

The stranger blinked, gaze flitting away as his fingers twisted together on the table, but guilt was none of Myror’s business.

He had his money, now he only had to prepare to deliver.

\---

“You’re quiet today.”

“Hmm?” Merlin hummed, and Morgana smiled.

They were sitting outside, taking their lunch at the usual place, a fallen log near the clearing where he helped Morgana, and formerly Lancelot, practice. Of course, practicing magic was very different. Lancelot had never managed to set trees on fire with a sword.

Winter had passed in a grey haze for Merlin, endless days and achingly long nights of cold that stemmed from much more than the rattling windows of his tiny room. It was comfortable, working for Morgana, and he had grown much closer to Gwen, her warm smiles and cheery conversation the only thing keeping him afloat during the day, but, as the weather warmed, spring thawing its way up through the snow, time was making itself clear, marking with every ray of sunlight the weeks that were passing behind them.

He had not spoken to Arthur in over three months.

He saw him, of course, and he still attended to him at formal banquets and such so as not to earn Uther’s ire, but they did not speak, did not even—when Merlin could help it—look at one another, though he could often feel Arthur’s eyes prickling at the side of his face when he leaned down to pour him more wine.

It was odd how, in his absence, Arthur had become an even larger presence in Merlin’s life. He had thought it could get no more domineering than the prince demanding Merlin get up early to go out with the kitchen staff, making sure to pick only the best fruits from the gardens for his breakfast, but Merlin was still up early all the time, even though Morgana rose much later than Arthur. He woke to listen to the beginning clangs and thumps of training, Arthur always the first one out, much earlier than the others since Merlin had left him, and Merlin noticed on the occasions he watched him from the windows how tired Arthur looked, how worn. He worried how much he was sleeping, how much he was eating, as he seemed to have lost weight as well, and whether he was perhaps ill. He worried more about Arthur now than he ever had before, his sunken eyes and paling skin a constant presence in Merlin’s mind, and, even now, sitting in the sun with Morgana, he was listening for the horn that would announce Arthur’s return from the hunting expedition they had left for early that morning. Merlin no longer accompanied him, of course, but he made sure to go into the stables every morning before he knew Arthur was to leave, checking over his horse and placing his usual protection spell.

More than once, Arthur and his knights had come back with horrific tales of bandits or monsters, regaling everyone in the hall with a grand retelling of an arrow that had just barely missed, a tree branch that had conveniently fallen, or a beast that had misdirected a fang or claw.

‘Looks like you’ve got an angel on your side, Sire,’ they would joke, and the whole room would laugh, punctuated with slaps to one another’s backs, and Morgana would turn to him with a soft knowing look that Merlin would avoid.

She was looking at him that way now, smiling over the bite of bread she had been lifting to her mouth. “We could go wait for him, you know,” she said, and Merlin busied himself with slicing the meat. “My windows overlook the courtyard. He’ll have to ride through.”

Merlin knew this, of course, and had utilized that strategy many times before, but he shook his head. “Why would I want to do that?” he muttered. The knife suddenly lifted from his hands, pulling away before landing in Morgana’s grip, and he looked up to see her eyes fading gold. He smiled weakly. “You’re getting better at that.”

“And you’re avoiding the topic,” she countered, stowing the knife in her lap as she hastily wrapped it up with what was left of the bread and meat, moving the bundle to her opposite side as she shifted closer to Merlin. “Merlin, it’s been months,” she reminded unnecessarily, and he looked up, watching the breeze rattle the leaves of the trees. “You won’t be able to stay on my service much longer. Not once the weather warms.”

“I know,” he replied when she did not continue, his words carrying away from them, caught up in the wind.

“Then what do you plan to do?”

He stared up at the sky, unblinking.

“Merlin?”

“I don’t know,” he lied, because he knew what he would be doing after the spring celebrations, knew what lay ahead for Camelot, for Albion. His stomach spun with shame, but he iced it over.

Myror had been paid, there was no point in pitying Uther now, and Merlin had at least managed to convince Nimueh to spare Arthur, to give him a chance to reform after his father was gone. Merlin hoped that, without Uther’s influence, Arthur would see that magic was not evil, would see that they could work together. For both their sakes, he prayed he was right.

“Will you leave?” Morgana asked softly, and Merlin turned to her, hitching a reassuring smile onto his face.

“No,” he answered, shaking his head, moving a hand to cover hers where they folded self-consciously in her lap. “No, I won’t leave.”

She smiled at him, and then they both turned at the sound of a horn, but it was not the typical horns. A much grander trumpeting carried to them from the gates, and they rose from the log as if they had counted it off, both turning to look curiously at the other. They then both shook their heads, acknowledging their collective ignorance, and Morgana turned to grab the remainder of their lunch, handing it to Merlin as they started back up the hill.

“Oh, the tree!” Morgana blurted, turning and waving a hand at the unfortunate victim of a spell gone askance.

Merlin looked back at the sad sapling, one branch broken off, the leaves charred away and bark fire-scarred. He lifted his hands, magic sparking at his fingertips, and then stopped, lowering his palm. “You try it,” he said, and Morgana gaped at him.

“Me!?” she spluttered. “I’m the one who did that to it in the first place! If _I_ try and fix it, it’ll probably just give up and explode!”

Merlin chuckled, moving to stand beside her, guiding her back down the hill by the shoulder. “That was a defensive spell,” he coaxed, her shoulders stiffening anxiously. “This will be a restorative one. Maybe your magic just doesn’t like to harm.”

“Magic can do that?” Morgana asked, looking speculatively at the tree. “It has…preferences? Like- Like it’s alive?”

Merlin shrugged. “In a way. Magic is a part of you, and, as such, every person’s magic is different. So, when we were practicing earlier, maybe the spell didn’t work because you didn’t really want it to.”

Morgana flushed slightly, her shoulders shrugging under Merlin’s hands. “I do worry I’ll hurt you,” she murmured, and he chuckled, pulling away to give her room.

“Morgana, you’re very powerful, and you’re learning very fast,” he began, and her eyes glittered with pride, “but you couldn’t hurt me. I don’t think you ever _would_ , for one thing, but- And I don’t mean you’re not good, because you are! It’s just-“

“You’re better,” she concluded, nodding, smile warm as he winced with chagrin. She chuckled. “It’s fine, Merlin. It’s not like I don’t know.” She rolled her eyes, and he laughed, embarrassment ebbing. “So, what’s your specialty, then?” she goaded, raising an eyebrow. “What does your magic _prefer_?”

Merlin smiled. “Let’s figure out yours first, alright?” he replied, and Morgana huffed, clearly disappointed in the failure of her stalling. “Now, try this one without words first, okay?” he suggested, and she nodded warily, lifting her hand toward the tree. “Just focus on what you want to happen. Picture the leaves growing, the branch reattaching. Focus entirely on that image, will it to happen.”

Morgana’s eyes blazed, her eyebrows furrowing and then shooting up as the branch twitched, slowly moving up, shards of twig reforming at the shattered base.

“Don’t let up!” Merlin reminded as Morgana faltered in her surprise, and she refocused, holding her arm more firmly.

Slowly, the branch knitted itself back to the tree, green leaves reappearing from the base and stretching outward, slowly unfurling their way out of the knobby bark. When the tree looked back to normal, Morgana lowered her hand, gold fading from her eyes as she looked down at her fingers, dazed.

Merlin beamed as he approached, and she blinked up at him. “You’re a natural!” he chimed, and she smiled, huffing a small laugh. “So, we know you’re good at restorative spells. Great! Now, I wonder how you’d do at healing. Or conjuring, but those are trickier. Repairing something is a lot easier than making something out of nothing.”

Morgana tilted her head at him with a curious frown. “Merlin, how long have you been studying magic?”

He blinked at her. “What do you mean? Like…learning spells?”

“No,” Morgana answered, shaking her head. “I mean how long have you been _studying_ it, figuring out the way it works. Like how you knew about the whole preferences thing?”

“Er…I don’t really know,” Merlin murmured, rubbing at the back of his neck, caught off guard at the question he had never before considered. “I don’t think I ever studied, I just sort of…knew.”

Morgana lifted an eyebrow. “You just _knew_ that everyone’s magic was _specifically attuned_ to certain types of spells?”

Merlin flushed, pushing his fingers up into his hair. “Well, I-I never really thought about before. I might have heard it somewhere.”

Morgana rolled her eyes. “You’re absurd,” she muttered, rattling her head and walking back up toward the castle, Merlin laughing as he followed. “So, go on then,” she prodded as they made their way up the slope. “What’s your specialty? And don’t say everything or I’ll push you down this hill.”

Merlin laughed, Morgana grinning at him. “I suppose I’m pretty good at healing spells.”

“Well, obviously,” Morgana sighed, rolling her eyes. “You’re a _physician_ , Merlin. Give me something less obvious.”

Merlin chuckled, and then watched the trees ahead of them as he thought. “I’m good at conjuring,” he continued after a while. “Creating things.”

“Like you did with my mirror,” Morgana supplied, and he nodded.

“Yeah, and also other things. Like light. I’m pretty good with light.”

“Light?” Morgana asked, turning to him curiously.

Merlin lifted his hand, a glowing orb appearing within the palm. Morgana looked amazed enough by that, but Merlin, still rather enamored with the concept of having someone to share his magic with, took the opportunity to show off, and the orb rocketed up into the air, exploding above them into a shower of glittering streaks, falling to the ground like burning stars that left no mark.

Morgana’s eyes were wide as she followed their path, and then she looked to Merlin, glowing with a grin. “It’s beautiful,” she said, and he knew she wasn’t just talking about his vanity show.

“It can be,” Merlin replied as they continued moving.

“What about the other types?” Morgana asked. “Defense and attack and such? How are you at those?”

Merlin thought back to the campfires of his first few days at the Druid camp, the voices he would hear drifting into his tent, speaking in low tones of fear and awe as they discussed the new arrival, recounting the way they had found him, unconscious in the middle of a lightning-burned landscape littered with dead.

“I can get by,” he replied, perhaps a little too darkly, as Morgana gave him a confused look before falling silent.

They observed proper decorum as they made it to the edge of the forest, Merlin following behind, looking appropriately respectful as he carried the bundle of their lunch, head bowed. Morgana’s shoulders stiffened, and he knew it was due to her natural aversion to having anyone hovering behind her—‘It’s just creepy, Merlin! I know you’re there, but I can’t _see_ you. What if you’re pulling faces or something?’—but there was nothing for it, especially when they passed under an archway and into the courtyard to find a grand assembly of horses and carts, as well as several knights in foreign colors.

Uther descended the steps of the castle, arms stretched wide. “Princess Mithian!” he greeted warmly, and Merlin watched as a young woman descended from one of the horses, her brown hair unfurling down her back as she pulled back her cloak.

She was wearing trousers and tall boots, a riding cape trimmed with furs skimming low over her body, but she removed it to reveal a fine tunic, white with silver embroidery.

“Your Majesty,” she said, bowing politely.

Uther looked out over the assembled knights, his brow furrowing. “Is your father not with you?” he asked.

Mithian shook her head. “I am afraid not, my lord. He took ill shortly before we were to depart. He sends his regrets, as well as several barrels of our finest brew, which he hopes will soothe the loss of his company.”

Uther chuckled, dropping down the last few steps to be level with her in the courtyard. “Rodor, insufferable as ever.”

Mithian smiled, nodding her head. “Indeed, my lord. More and more every day.”

Uther laughed, clapping his hands together.

Merlin’s jaw clenched.

“You must be tired from your journey,” the king continued, and Mithian bowed her head in agreement. “Food and wine will be prepared for your company in the hall. I have sent a messenger to my son. Regrettably, we did not receive news of your early arrival until late this morning, and he had already left on a hunt.”

Mithian smiled, inclining her head. “It is no trouble, my lord. In fact, it is a blessing, as I would prefer to rest and recover for a time before greeting the prince.”

“Yes, yes, of course,” Uther muttered, stepping aside and waving a hand. “You two will have much to discuss. I would not wish you to exhaust you.”

“Thank you, my lord,” the young princess replied, bowing again. “You are most kind.”

Uther smiled, as if it were a genuine compliment as opposed to an obliged pleasantry. “Come!” he announced, lifting his hands to the assembly. “Your horses and things will be cared for and delivered to your rooms!” His eyes shifted, alighting on the pair of them hiding—or at least Merlin was—on the fringes. “Ah, Morgana!” Uther called, summoning her over, requiring Merlin to follow in her wake, head bowed. “Morgana, you remember Princess Mithian.”

The two women exchanged polite bows.

“Of course. I do believe you owe me a race,” Morgana teased, smiling brightly, and Mithian laughed.

“Hopefully you have been practicing,” she replied, eyes twinkling, and Merlin warmed to her immediately.

“I have, indeed,” Morgana answered, her expression then turning curious. “What brings you to Camelot? I was not informed of your visit.” She looked critically at Uther, and even the king looked rather flustered under that steely glare.

“It was arranged rather hastily,” Mithian replied, looking apologetic. “The summons only arrived two weeks ago.”

“Summons?” Morgana parroted, looking curiously between the king and princess. “A summons for what?”

Uther flushed while Mithian smiled, a little awkward and puzzled.

“To arrange the details of my betrothal to Arthur,” she replied.

Merlin’s head shot up, decorum forgotten as his mouth dropped open, hands falling limply to his sides.

He took it back; he took it all back. He hated her, hated her from her curly hair to her polished boots.

“Your- Your what?” Morgana spluttered for him, face turning just far enough backward to exchange a glance of kindred shock, but then they were both of them looking away to the path that led down to the gate as horse hooves clattered up toward them.

Merlin’s throat clamped shut as he saw Arthur leading the line, his blond hair gold where it caught the sunlight, and he stalled his horse scant meters from where they stood, swinging down in a smooth motion that made Merlin dizzy.

God, Arthur was _not_ something that faded with time, his presence almost all the more potent as Merlin’s tolerance had waned, and his fingertips buzzed as he saw one of the buckles at Arthur’s shoulder was straining, not having been fastened tightly enough. He would never have made that mistake, never would have permitted Arthur to leave with his light armor jostling against his shoulder like that, and he wondered if he was sore because of it, if he’d need a tonic or a salve.

All of these thoughts hit Merlin in the scant seconds between Arthur landing on the stone and reaching them, leaving him feeling rather like he’d taken a horse kick to the stomach, and his breath physically left him, a soft puff of air as Arthur drew closer. He could feel Arthur not looking at him, if such a thing were possible, see it in the pinch around the blond’s eyes as his hands stiffly removed his gloves, and Merlin quickly looked away, focusing on the back of Morgana’s head instead of where Arthur now stood in front of her.

“My apologies, father. My lady,” he said, dropping a nod to Uther and Mithian, and Merlin’s stomach rolled at the sound of his voice.

How long had it been? Weeks, he supposed, weeks since he had heard it with any sort of clarity, been this close without the distortion of boisterous feasting to detract from the sound. He swallowed hard.

“I returned as soon as I received your message. I assure you, I would not have left had I known-”

“It’s quite alright, Arthur,” Mithian interrupted, hand lifting as if to lay a palm on his arm, and, though Merlin had felt no magic escape him, he wondered if he had somehow compelled her by sheer force of furious will to draw the gesture back. “Your father has already explained, and I was just saying that I should wish to settle in for a time regardless. You need not have rushed back.”

Arthur smiled, and Merlin hated it for its sincerity. “No expedition is worth the loss of even a moment of your company, my lady.”

Merlin managed not to gag, but he did wheeze a little, although he doubted anyone but Morgana would have heard it, as Mithian giggled at the same moment.

“Oh, Arthur,” she chuckled, shaking her head. “I am glad to see your charms have improved since our previous meeting.”

“I’ve no idea what you mean,” he replied, tart with faux innocence. “I genuinely thought you would be interested in that frog.”

“Which is why you put it in my saddle bag,” Mithian muttered, and Arthur coughed into a hand, averting his eyes, causing Mithian to laugh.

Uther then interrupted, eyes bright as he watched the two interact. “Yes, well, there will be plenty of time for reacquainting later. For now, Morgana?”

Morgana lifted her head rather slowly, as if in a trance, and Merlin could relate. “Hmm?” she hummed.

Uther continued beaming obliviously. “Will you accompany Lady Mithian to her rooms? The south ones overlooking the garden. And send your _maid_ servant”—he shot a distasteful glance at Merlin—“to attend to her.”

“There is no need, Your Majesty,” Mithian contended. “I brought my own maidservant with me, and she is-”

“Also tired from the journey, no doubt,” Uther interjected, lifting a hand, and he looked almost kind, if one couldn’t see through the grandfatherly smile to the cunning act of diplomacy.

Mithian reluctantly conceded with a nod.

“Then she shall rest. Morgana’s maidservant-”

“Guinevere,” Morgana snipped, and Uther’s temporary compassion faltered from his eyes for a moment.

“Guinevere,” he continued after a beat, nodding in acceptance, “will show her to her quarters. They are abutting to your own.”

Mithian bowed her head. “Thank you, Your Majesty. I have no doubt she will be grateful for the respite.”

Uther smiled magnanimously. “Nothing at all,” he dismissed. “Shall we?” He directed them with a wave up the stairs, a lingering look on Merlin making it clear he wasn’t meant to follow, and Arthur too took his leave to remain with a nod toward the princess.

Merlin watched them leave, Morgana and Mithian in deep conversation behind Uther’s billowing cloak, but found himself rooted to the spot. He was hallucinating, he was sure of it. Morgana’s haphazard spell work had knocked a tree branch on his head, and he was still lying in the clearing unconscious. It was the only explanation, surely. Subtly, he pinched at his forearm. It hurt. Well, damn.

Blearily, he looked to Arthur, the only grounding thing in this odd nightmare of a scene he had caught himself suspended in. “You’re getting married?” he breathed, and he hadn’t meant to, not here with the bustle of knights and horses going on behind them, and maybe not ever at all.

Arthur stiffened beside him, breath catching oddly as he inhaled. “Betrothed,” he amended, voice tight.

“To be eventually married,” Merlin clarified, and Arthur sighed, still averting his eyes.

“Yes, Merlin, that is how betrothals work,” he muttered, turning his face away as he pinched at the bridge of his nose, seeming suddenly exhausted.

Merlin stared at him hard, the sounds of unloading and barked orders doing nothing to stifle the tension between them. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Why should I?” Arthur snapped, looking at him finally, and there was sad, twisted sort of anger in his eyes, falling to a twitch of pain around his mouth as he searched over Merlin’s face. He swallowed, looking back toward the castle doors again. “It’s not like you’ve been around,” he muttered bitterly. “And you heard my father; it was all rather sudden.”

“Well, yes, but…but still-” Merlin stammered, wounded in a way he didn’t fully understand himself.

“Why does it matter?” Arthur snarled, moving away from him. “You’ll be gone by then anyway.”

“What?” Merlin sputtered, stepping forward a few quick steps to meet him on the stairs. “What are you talking about? I’m not leaving.”

Arthur blinked at him, shoulders sagging in the shift from defensive to curious. “You’re- What?”

Merlin shook his head, taking a small step back as he realized he’d come up rather too close to Arthur to allow for coherent speech. “I’m not leaving,” he repeated, lowering his voice as he had to back up to allow a knight carrying a large crate to pass between them. “At least, I wasn’t _planning_ on it.”

Arthur stepped forward, prompting Merlin to back up as they moved farther toward the edge of the stairs, out of the way of the unloading. “You weren’t?” he questioned, brow creased. “But I- You- Morgana-” He stopped, apparently incapable of forming the thought into words, but Merlin understood regardless.

“I’m helping Morgana now, yes,” he allowed, bobbing his head, “but I- I didn’t- I never intended to _leave_ leave.”

Arthur blinked, and then his expression hardened, back stiffening once more. “You just don’t want to be _my_ servant anymore,” he surmised tonelessly.

Merlin sighed, flitting his eyes away. “Arthur, I-”

“Sire.”

“What?” Merlin murmured, perplexed by the interruption.

Arthur squared his jaw, eyes steel. “You should address me as Sire. Or my lord. Whichever you’d prefer.”

Merlin gaped at him, and then huffed a disbelieving laugh. “You’re not serious.”

Arthur’s eyes narrowed.

Merlin chuckled, but it was a gnarled, angry thing with little mirth in it. “What are you, 12?”

There was a small click as Arthur’s jaw twitched. “No,” he said, low and cold, “I am the crown prince, and you should show me the proper respect.”

Merlin’s mouth dropped open again, but this time the shock was overwritten with hot indignity rising in his chest. “Oh, should I?” he spat, and Arthur blinked, almost a flinch. “Well maybe you should try earning it first!”

“I don’t have to earn anything!” Arthur snarled back, and then turned, realizing his volume, but no one appeared to have noticed. He leaned in closer to Merlin before continuing anyway. “I give you orders, and you follow them. That is how this works, _that_ is what this is,” he hissed, but there was something tormented in his eyes, like he was saying it more to his own mind than Merlin’s ears. He leaned back, giving a prim tug to the bottom of his tunic. “I will require you to accompany me with Princess Mithian tomorrow,” he stated, and Merlin bristled at the domineering tone. “You will report to my chambers at lunch.”

“Like hell,” Merlin snarled, turning away to walk back down the steps.

“Merlin!” Arthur barked, and heavy footsteps followed after him. “You can’t walk away from me!”

“I appear perfectly capable.”

“ _Merlin_!”

He whirled around with a growling sigh of frustration, Arthur hot on his heels. “Leave me alone, Arthur!” he snapped, a little bit more of the ache in his chest seeping into the words than he would’ve liked. “Go stare at your reflection in your crown or something! I’m sure George keeps it plenty well-polished.” His mouth twitched in an aborted grimace as he recognized the tell, the small petty hint at the jealousy that had been roaring beneath the surface for months, but Arthur didn’t appear to notice.

He flushed, eyes flashing, and he took a great stride toward Merlin, bursting into his personal space. “You cannot speak to me that way!” he very nearly shouted, loud enough that a few of the closer knights took notice, and Merlin spared a fleeting thought of gratitude that they were Arthur’s men and not Uther or Mithian’s. “You _will_ show me some respect!”

“Or what?!” Merlin bellowed back, leaning so close to Arthur’s face, he could feel his furious puffs of breath. “You’ll burn me too?!” He hadn’t mean to crack on it, hadn’t meant to give away in that one small squeak how much that question had been weighing on him, how much that was the reason for everything.

Arthur blinked, rage lifting to confusion, his head moving back just slightly away from Merlin’s as he scanned over his face, which Merlin felt burning hot with humiliation as he realized his eyes were stinging. “What?” he breathed, and Merlin blinked hard, shifting back as he looked aside at the stone ground. “No, I- Of course not. Merlin, I-”

“Forget it,” he whispered, giving in to the wreckage of his voice, “just forget it.” He shook his head at the ground, because of course Arthur wouldn’t understand, couldn’t when he didn’t know. Of course Arthur would just stand there looking like Merlin had dug his heart out with a dull knife. He turned away, walking back toward Gaius’ chambers, but Arthur grappled at his arm, and, though Merlin jerked it away, he did stop.

“No, Merlin, wait! You- I wouldn’t do that.” He shook his head, voice soft with contrition. “I would never- You have to know I wouldn’t do that.” His face was pleading, his eyes broken, and it only worsened as he searched Merlin’s face. “Merlin,” he began again carefully, taking a shuffling step closer. “Merlin, you know I’d never do that. Tell me you know I’d never do that.”

Merlin stared at his desperate expression a moment longer before he had to drop his head, shaking it at the ground, no idea what he felt, what the answer was.

“Merlin-” Arthur breathed, lost, and Merlin sucked in a breath, determined to escape before he lost what little control he had managed to cling to.

“I have to go,” he murmured, and Arthur did not try to stop him, though he did have to duck around Lancelot’s concerned, outstretching arm as he brushed past where he and Leon stood.

\---

Arthur was waiting to see Merlin out the window, like he did most days now. Merlin and Morgana always walked through the courtyard at around the same time, just before sunset, but they had not arrived, and the spring day was fading fast, the last throes of light bleeding red across the flagstones below.

He sighed, the window thumping against its casing as his head rested on the cool glass. His eyes found the spot they had argued earlier, and he shut them tight, the inside of his eyelids burning yellow as he pressed them tight against the memory. He tried to summon better things, like his conversation with Mithian.

She was wonderful, always had been, and beautiful, he supposed. They talked about everything, from their antics as children to their future visions for their kingdoms, but never the wedding, not even the betrothal, not until Uther came in with the council and forced the issue. No, the times Arthur liked best were the quiet ones, just he and Mithian left alone by the fire of one of the great rooms. Ostensibly, they were to be bonding, left alone to provide twittering gossip for the maids who not-so-subtly snuck a peek at them from time to time, but, truthfully, they did nothing but talk about their kingdoms, their concerns, their people, their fathers. The truth of the situation went unspoken, both of them acutely aware of their helplessness in the face of duty, and Mithian was pleasant enough. She would love his people, and the marriage would solidify the alliance that, with their fathers both as stubborn as they were, had fluctuated somewhat over the years. It was a beneficial arrangement for both of them, and Mithian would be a good queen for Camelot. For him, however…

The door opened behind him, startling him as he spun, back bracing against the wall as he reached for his sword.

Morgana entered, raising an eyebrow at his alarm, and he glowered at her, straightening up to regain some dignity.

“You couldn’t knock?”

She smiled at him, closing the door behind her. “It wasn’t locked,” she said, like that excused everything.

He glared at her, but she paid him no mind, flowing into the room, her eyes out the window beside him.

“Looking for something?” she asked, and he knew she knew, the twitch at the corner of her mouth giving away the futility of lying, but he threw himself on the sword anyway.

“Just…making sure the guard changed on time,” he muttered, and promptly winced. Morgana would know the guard didn’t change until dusk.

She chuckled, moving to stand across from him, leaning against the wall on the opposite side of the window, her face lit by the waning light as she looked out over the courtyard. “He looks for you too, you know,” she said softly, and Arthur whipped his head to her.

“What?” he fumbled, and she turned her eyes just briefly to smile thinly at him.

“He looks for you,” she repeated. “When you’re training. When you’re leaving. When you’re coming back.”

Arthur swallowed, pressing his back into the wall and staring down at his boots.

“I heard what happened,” Morgana continued, voice gentler than he remembered hearing it in a long time. “Earlier. In the courtyard after Mithian and I left.”

Arthur scoffed, a clearly forced huff of false amusement. “Don’t tell me you buy into castle gossip, Morgana.”

“Leon is hardly an unreliable source,” she countered, and he looked to her again.

“Leon?” he questioned. “When were you talking to Leon? You had no business prying into-”

“Of course I did!” Morgana interjected, silencing his blusters. She turned toward him, arms crossing. “Merlin is my friend, and you are like a brother to me.”

Arthur blinked, momentarily taken aback at the sentiment passing Morgana’s lips so casually, but she went quickly on, demanding his attention.

“I cannot stand to see you both so miserable, and for so _ridiculous_ a reason.”

“It’s not ridiculous!” Arthur bleated, conscious of the childishness even before Morgana raised a brow. “It’s not my fault he left! And I don’t care anyway; he can disappear entirely if he likes. There are countless servants to take his place.”

“Where have I heard _that_ before?” Morgana snipped, and Arthur’s lips snapped shut, jaw squaring.

“It’s not the same thing,” he muttered, turning away and walking back toward the table for no real reason other than a need to move.

“No, it’s not,” Morgana agreed, surprising him. “But surely you can understand how it _looks_ that way,” she implored, stepping toward him. “How Merlin would see it.”

“He has no reason to think-”

“He _does_ , Arthur!” Morgana interrupted, pleading as she laid a hand softly on his wrist. “He _does_ have a reason—many, in fact—but I think you know what the main one is.”

Arthur blinked, skittering his gaze away.

“Arthur,” Morgana soothed, moving a hand to his shoulder, “you are not Uther.”

He was startled enough by the boldness to make the mistake of looking at her, and then the soft pity in her eyes was too difficult to look away from.

“But you’re not infallible either,” she finished, placing a palm gently to his cheek for a moment before she moved away, his back to her as she walked past him toward the door.

“Kings do not apologize,” he said, the words coming unsummoned to his mouth from countless memories he didn’t like to revisit.

Morgana’s footsteps stopped behind him. “I suppose that depends on the kind of king you wish to be,” she replied, and, when he turned around, she was gone, the door drifting closed the only sign she had been there at all.

He moved stood there a while, moving eventually to lean his hip against the side of the table, arms crossed as he looked out the window. His father had never apologized, never admitted to being wrong. ‘Apologies are only admissions of weakness,’ he had always said. ‘Kings cannot be seen to be weak.’ But Arthur hadn’t wanted to be king then, had only wanted to tell the young son of a visiting lord he had been playing with that he hadn’t meant to hit him that hard, but Uther chased the boy away, a bowing mess clutching his bleeding nose. It wasn’t long before Arthur stopped having friends at all, and the people who were around him never questioned him, never challenged him, never hit as hard as they could or played their best hands at cards. Even Leon and Lancelot, though well-intentioned and loyal, he had no doubt of that, would not fight him fairly if pressed. He was better than them, for the most part, but he had been having a lot of off-days recently, and they had always let him swipe the sword from their hand regardless. It had been a long time since Arthur had been challenged, since he had been forced to consider his actions had not been the right ones, and, now that he was here again, he had no idea how to handle it.

Soft laughter filtered in through the window, and Arthur darted over, flicking the latch and opening it just enough to let the sound break through.

“Higher, higher!” A child’s voice, and Arthur craned his neck out just enough to see, while still likely being invisible from the ground below.

His heart clenched in his chest as he saw a now-familiar head of auburn hair, crowning the top of a small boy trailing along after Merlin, clinging to his hand with both of his small ones. William, Arthur knew his name was, the brother of the girl whose face he could not shake from his nightmares.

“Higher, Merlin, higher!” He jumped a bit, rattling Merlin’s arm where he held it, and Merlin laughed, the low baritone slipping over Arthur’s skin like a drawn bath after a long ride, his ears too long parted from the sound.

Merlin replied, something unintelligible, and then there was a series of short syllables, what must have been a countdown, because the boy took a few quick steps forward and then lifted up his feet, swinging from Merlin’s arm as the servant stiffened it, pulling it up and forward to drag the boy in an arc through the air.

“Again, again!” William cried, and Merlin laughed, the countdown beginning again as they made their way across the courtyard, and the pattern continued until they were out of sight, Arthur watching them all the while.

He knew Merlin had grown fond of the boy, the two of them rarely parted beyond when it was necessary, and Morgana as well was smitten with him, her eyes sparkling as she fussed over his offerings of strangely shaped leaves and rocks. Arthur, for his part, had kept his distance, a lingering guilt stifling any interaction, but the boy liked to watch him train, he knew, as he would often see him lurking amongst the flapping tents and rustling hedges in the early hours of the morning when he was supposed to be delivering bread from the kitchens, where he had been put to work to earn his keep. His keep, however, was a small pallet in a corner of the kitchen, a fire on one side, a drafty door on the other, and the boy never looked entirely healthy because of it.

Arthur suspected Merlin let him sleep in his bed from time to time, considering the amount of back-grabbing and wincing that came from the servant on the days the boy was in highest spirits, but it was still not enough, not a satisfactory way for barely a babe to live.

Arthur blinked, eyes still on the archway where Merlin and the child had disappeared, his lips parting with a thought. Maybe kings didn’t apologize, and maybe crown princes didn’t know how, but Arthur could do diplomacy, he could make concessions and grant favors until both parties reached an amicable agreement. It wasn’t exactly the most sentimental way of looking at it, but it was the only way he could think of—that didn’t cause him to break out in a flop sweat, at least—that he could get Merlin to even tentatively forgive him.

Rushing to the door, he ripped it open, charging down the stairs toward where he knew his father would be gloating over his fine matchmaking skills with the lords held captive in the throne room by their wish to not offend him. He chuckled wryly to himself, wondering how grateful they’d be to be spared by him wanting an audience with his father, although, and he shook his head at even daring to think it, he doubted it would be enough to put this marriage business to rest.

\---

“A page,” Merlin repeated, raising an eyebrow down at William’s grinning face. “Arthur made you his page.”

William nodded eagerly, hands clasped behind his back as he rocked forward onto his toes. “Yep! I get to feed the hawks and set up the targets, and, when Artemis has her puppies, Prince Arthur says I get to _name them_!” He bounced a bit in his glee.

Merlin just blinked. “I- William, are you sure?” he questioned, bending down toward the boy, bracing his hands just above his knees. “He said ‘page’? I mean, you actually heard him say ‘page’?” Pages were normally from noble families, sent and accepted as a gesture of goodwill, an acknowledgement of some old alliance. William was a common peasant, not to mention his sister having been found guilty of sorcery, and the fact that he was just under a year shy of the traditional starting age. Uther had been difficult enough to convince of Lancelot’s worth as a knight, let alone this little boy, whose path from a page would likely bring him to the same level. Merlin simply didn’t see how it was possible Arthur had managed it.

William rolled his eyes, a gesture Merlin would have to be speaking to Morgana about, because he had most certainly picked that up from her. “ _Yes_ ,” he drawled, clearly impatient with Merlin’s ineptness. “Look!” He raced over to the small pack he often carried with him to store his findings when Merlin took him hunting for herbs. He had a fondness for quartz, and, if Merlin conjured a few particularly polished pieces here and there along his path, well, he wasn’t to know. The boy returned, clutching a bundle of fabric in a familiar shade of red. “See?” he blurted excitedly, unfurling it to reveal perhaps the smallest tunic Merlin had ever seen, the Pendragon crest diminutive as it stood out gold against the crimson.

Merlin was, much to William’s apparent amusement, struck speechless. “I-” he stammered, and then rattled his head, smile rising naturally on his face. “That’s great, William,” he said, and the boy, if possible, beamed brighter. “I’m very proud of you.”

The boy continued grinning, tunic bunched in his hands, and then grew solemn, the expression strange on his young face. “Do you think- Do you think Sarah would be proud too?” he asked, and Merlin’s stomach clenched. “Even though- Even though it’s the prince, and-and the king…” He stopped, unable to go on, and Merlin crouched down, grabbing onto the boys hands where they still clenched into the scarlet.

“I _know_ she’d be proud of you,” Merlin assured emphatically, and the boy gave him a weak downcast smile, looking up through his lashes. “The king… The prince is not the king, William,” Merlin said, swallowing around the internal conflict knotting in his throat. Those were his issues, his quarrels with Arthur, and William need not be burdened with them. “Prince Arthur is a good man,” he continued, surprised his body offered no resistance to the words, made no twist or roil of protest. “He- It wasn’t his fault, what happened.” He didn’t even know he believed that until he was hearing the words in his own voice. “You are lucky to be in his service,” Merlin concluded, deciding he had thrown himself into enough mental turmoil for one speech, and finished with a smile only just forced.

William returned it with notably more joy. “Like you, right, Merlin?” he asked eagerly. “You’re Arthur’s too, right?”

Merlin’s lungs tightened as he held his breath. Swallowing hard, he nodded. “Yeah,” he said, the dragon’s cryptic speeches coming unbidden to his mind, “I’m Arthur’s too.”

\---

Arthur may have jumped into this a little too quickly. He liked children, of course, liked them as much as anyone else, but he had realized over the course of the day that he may, perhaps, prefer them at a bit further of a distance than constantly at his hip. He could not say William wasn’t attentive, however, or eager, lapping up every bit of information or advice Arthur gave him with a wide-eyed awe that seemed more akin to an adoring puppy than a child. He bounced along beside Arthur, staggering a bit under the weight of the straw targets, and Arthur found within him a rather disturbing natural impulse for worry, his arms constantly twitching with every sway of the boy, ready to catch him should he start to fall. It was unnervingly compassionate, not to mention horribly embarrassing when Morgana came down to tutor William on the edges of the field while they trained, arriving a little earlier than necessary to catch the end of the training setup.

William had been attempting to push one of the tall wooden mannequins into position, something Arthur had explicitly told him to leave for one of the knights to handle, and the makeshift head of a bundle of straw wearing a bucket toppled off toward him, forcing Arthur to drop his sword and lunge for him, snatching him out of the trajectory.

“Careful!” he snipped, the boy still pinned to his legs where Arthur had tugged him. “That almost hit you!”

“I’m sorry, my lord,” the boy murmured plaintively, hands tugging at the edge of his Pendragon tunic as he turned, backing away to face Arthur, although not looking up at him. “I didn’t mean it. I didn’t know it would be that heavy.”

Arthur sighed, crouching down to eyelevel with the child. “It’s not your fault,” he said, and William looked up at him, mildly startled. “And you’re not in trouble or anything, just- Next time, when I tell you to leave something alone, leave it alone, alright? Some of these things are very dangerous.”

The boy nodded, biting at his lip, and Arthur went temporarily insane with fondness and chuckled, ruffling the lad’s hair as he stood.

“And cheer up,” he ordered lightly, and the boy began a sheepish grin. “We’re working on archery today.”

Arthur had never understood when people said Morgana lit up the room, her presence seeming to more darken it for him than anything, but William’s wide eyes and missing-teeth smile could truly light up the _sky_.

“Should I get the targets then, my lord?” he asked, knees already twitching to run.

Arthur nodded. “Yes, but ask Leon or Lancelot to help you set them up,” he added, protective of who he allowed to interact with his young page. So far, they were the only knights to make the list.

William nodded enthusiastically, nearly tripping over his thin legs as he made a haphazard attempt to bow and run at the same time, and then he was gone, tearing off across the lawn toward the storage tents.

Arthur watched him go, smiling vaguely as he shook his head, and then startled at the soft voice at his shoulder.

“You’re fond of him,” Morgana said, smiling off after him as well.

Arthur cleared his throat. “He’s a hard-worker,” he replied stiffly. “I appreciate efficiency.”

“Oh, of course,” Morgana chirped, raising an eyebrow as well as a smirk. “ _Efficiency_ ,” she added, and, with a final flick of her brows, glided away to the edge of the field, schooling supplies tucked under her arm.

The training was a long one, the sun high in the sky before they stopped. The knights lined up again and again, firing at their targets from greater and greater distances, and, every time, William would run out afterwards, collecting the arrows and adding them to the growing pile at the edge.

“Will you _stop_ interrupting my lesson?” Morgana bemoaned shrilly at one point, flapping her arms and glaring at him, and, though Arthur had only sneered at her, he did switch from archery to hand-to-hand, leaving William to her mercy.

When next he glanced over, he nearly failed to block a blow, staggering a little before he regained his balance and parried the force away.

Merlin had joined them at some point, splayed out in the grass on his side and pointing at the parchment sitting in the middle of their grouping. Evidently, his help was not appreciated, as Morgana swatted his hand away, and Arthur watched as he exchanged an exaggeratedly offended look with William, which got the boy laughing, only further annoying Morgana. Merlin smiled, clearly pleased at his interference, and that’s when his eyes caught Arthur’s. His smile faltered for a moment, twitching down in the usual way when one was suddenly distracted, and then his lips closed, face settling into something that wasn’t quite a smile, but wasn’t a glare either.

Arthur didn’t miss another hit all through the rest of training.

When they finally did end, several knights wincing at Arthur-inflicted bruises, Arthur made his way over to the small gathering in the grass, removing his helmet and making a hasty attempt to wipe the sweat from his face with a rag he had tucked into the back of his belt. William started to get up, but Arthur waved him stay with a hand, and the boy relaxed again, looking back to the book Morgana had open in front of him.

Merlin didn’t look up at him, and, though the tension was there, it wasn’t quite as cold as before, more uncomfortable in that stomach-wriggling way than blood-chilling.

“But why did they go to war?” William asked, and Arthur leaned over him, attempting to read the text, but it was too small to see from his height.

“Over the land. They were fighting over where the boundary was within the mountains,” Morgana answered, and Arthur recalled a conflict between two of the other kingdoms several years ago that was likely the culprit of the discussion.

“But why?” William asked, legs crossed beneath him. “That isn’t even _nice_ land. It’d be all cold and rocky.”

Merlin chuckled, and Arthur resolutely blamed the small shudder than ran through him on the wind. “The land wasn’t really the point,” he said, leaning over to turn back a page. “Remember? The king was angry about the blocking of a trade route.”

“So they went to war?” William questioned, frowning. “Why didn’t they just talk about it?”

Merlin’s lips quivered around a smile, but it was Morgana who answered.

“Because men will find any excuse to put on armor and swing swords at one another,” she snapped, flashing a goading look at Arthur, who sneered good-naturedly, but did not reply. “But, regardless, King Lithus won, and that’s why the boundary extends to the base of the mountains,” she added, pointing down to a line on another piece of parchment Arthur now noticed was a map.

“Then what happened?” William asked, and Morgana turned to him curiously.

“What do you mean?”

“With the kingdoms,” William clarified, leaning forward eagerly over his knees. “Are they still fighting? Were there more wars?”

“Er…no,” Morgana murmured, brow furrowing. “King Lithus won, and that was the last of it—so far, at least.” She paused, looking over the frowning boy. “Why do you ask?”

William cast a small glance at Merlin, who gave an almost invisible nod of encouragement. Drawing himself up with an inhale of courage, William spoke, rather grandly considering his six-year-old tone. “It is not enough to win a war; it is more important to organize the peace.”

Morgana blinked at him, as did Arthur, but Merlin beamed.

“Aristotle,” he said, nodding approvingly.

William grinned. “I’m reading that book you gave me. Geoffrey is helping me,” he said, clearly trying to impress, and Merlin chuckled obligingly, causing the boy to flush.

“I see that. That’s very good. And I’m sure Geoffrey is happy to have someone to talk to.”

“Merlin,” Morgana hissed, cautioning.

“About Aristotle, I mean,” Merlin muttered hastily, smile straining. “Not talk to in general. He has people to talk to. Lots of people want to hear about his mother’s second cousin’s great uncle who was a general in the-”

“Merlin!”

“What?” Merlin murmured, blinking wide-eyed at Morgana while William giggled helplessly into his palms. “I was just saying it’s all very interesting.”

Morgana sighed, rolling her eyes, and Merlin took the opportunity to flash William a smirk and a wink, sending the boy toppling into laughter again.

“You’re a bad influence on him,” Morgana muttered, glaring at him. Her eyes then shot to Arthur. “And so are you,” she added, pointing a sharp nail up at him, and he regretted having been smiling at the goings-on. “The entire council didn’t just _lose_ their wigs on the same day.”

Merlin’s eyes went wide, his face stretching with dawning hilarity as he looked around at them all.

“I don’t know, they’re all very old,” Arthur muttered, pointedly not looking at William, who he could see in his peripheral vision was trying desperately not to burst into laughter. “They could have misplaced them.”

“Onto their horses?” Morgana snapped, and Merlin lost it.

“Oh my god, that was _you_!?” he spluttered, pointing up at Arthur with the hand that wasn’t clutching his stomach. “I nearly fainted when I walked into the stables! Thought I was losing my _mind_!”

“Some causes are already lost, Merlin,” Arthur murmured, and Merlin sneered, and, for a second, just a moment of laughter in the sun, everything was back to normal. And then something nipped at the back of Arthur’s mind. “Wait, why were you in the stables?” he asked, frowning down at Merlin.

Merlin faltered, blinking, mouth opening haltingly, but it was William who spoke.

“You were checking the saddle, right, Merlin?” he said brightly, clearly happy to know the answer. “You always check Prince Arthur’s saddle before they go out riding, don’t you?”

Merlin gaped at him, eyes popping with momentary terror, but he quickly reined it in the second William started to look uncomfortable. “I, er…yes,” he murmured, not looking at Arthur, even though Arthur could not have _stopped_ looking at him had a war broken out behind them. “Yes, I do, William,” Merlin continued, smile tight. “Thank you for reminding me.” He rose hastily, a tangle of loosely coordinated limbs that Arthur hardly believed managed to support him. “I should go,” he muttered, running a hand through his already ridiculous hair. “I have... I have to go.” He was walking away before Arthur regained anything close to control of his tongue, but, thankfully, Merlin stopped a short distance away, turning back. “Do you-” he muttered, barely looking at Arthur, but the question was still clearly directed at him. “Do you still need me? For that-that Mithian thing?”

Arthur swallowed, clenching his hand just to put the tension somewhere. “If you can,” he replied, stiff with control.

Merlin nodded jerkily. “Yeah, I- I’ve not got anything else on. I mean-” He floundered, spluttering a bit as he lifted a hand placatingly. “I would do it anyway. I’m not just doing it because I’ve got nothing else. I only meant-”

Arthur smiled, not realizing how much he had missed Merlin’s nonsensical babbling until it was back. “It’s fine,” he interrupted, and it was, even if only for now. “I’ve got to get ready, but stables? After lunch?”

Merlin nodded, a ghost of a smile flickering across his face. “Right. Stables. After lunch. See ya then,” he muttered, and then he was gone, hands curling and uncurling anxiously as he strode briskly back toward the castle.

Arthur hadn’t realized he’d been watching him until Morgana cleared her throat. Looking down, he saw her smiling smugly up at him. “What?” he snapped, and she blinked, lifting her eyebrows as she dropped her eyes back to the book that William was already delving back into. His eyes automatically lifted again to find Merlin, and, just before the servant disappeared around one of the castle walls, he would swear blue eyes turned back to him as well.

\---

“You don’t like me.”

Merlin started from where he was filling up the water skins, nearly dropping them into the creek.

“Sorry,” Mithian bade with a small, self-deprecating smile, her yellow dress pulled up so as not to drag through the mud as she approached. “I thought you’d have heard me coming.”

“I wasn’t paying particular attention, my lady,” Merlin smiled, straightening up to face her. “Or perhaps you are merely exceptionally light on your feet.”

Mithian smiled, but did not chuckle as the obligatory flirtatious comment rules would indicate she should. Instead, something a little sad lingered around her eyes, a tightness giving way to her anxiety. “Why?” she asked, facing him firmly now as she tilted her head.

Merlin blinked. “Why…?”

“Why don’t you like me?” she clarified, and Merlin’s heart temporarily failed.

“I- My lady, I assure you, I do not know what you mean,” he said, shaking his head.

Once again, she smiled that strange smile. “It’s alright,” she replied, almost shrugging. “I was just…well, I was curious. Arthur values your opinion, and I-I would not wish for you to think poorly of me.”

Merlin smiled, ducking his head and fiddling with the water skins. “The good opinion of a servant does not amount to much, my lady.”

“Your opinion matters to Arthur,” she repeated, more sternly now as she took a small step forward, and Merlin realized for the first time that they were alone, her handmaid having been left behind somewhere. It was not the most secure position to be in if one wanted to keep above reproach, but Merlin couldn’t exactly go running now. “If you find fault in me, I would rather know so I can address it fairly, rather than think you have spoken to him outside of my knowledge.”

“I would never do that, Princess,” Merlin urged, entirely truthful in that. “I would never say anything to His Highness.”

“But you do find fault in me,” Mithian contended.

“No, my lady, I do not,” Merlin retorted, perhaps a little snippier than intended, but he had rather panicked, caught out in a corner as he was. “I find no fault in you at all. You are a worthy queen and a worthy match, and I wish you and Arthur every blessing fate may afford you.”

Mithian fixed him with a stare so frighteningly like Morgana’s in its piercing that, for a second, Merlin forgot she was someone else. “Then why do you look at me as you do?”

Merlin turned his eyes away, shaking his head. “I know not what you mean, my lady,” he muttered, shuffling back toward the hill. “Forgive me, but I must be returning to my lord.”

“Arthur,” she murmured quietly to his turned back. “You called him Arthur.”

Merlin’s grip tightened on the water skins, but he did not reply, feeling her eyes burning into him as he made his way toward the picnic site.

\---

“How long have you known Merlin?” Mithian asked as they sat around the fire later that evening, a full day of riding having exhausted them both quite thoroughly.

“Er, I’m not sure,” Arthur mumbled as he handed her a glass of wine. “Autumn, I suppose. Early autumn, perhaps even the end of summer. It was still quite warm.”

“How do you remember?” She sipped at her wine as Arthur sat opposite, looking absentmindedly into the fire.

“Because he wasn’t wearing his jacket, and he gets cold at a _breeze_ , so it must have been- What?”

Mithian was watching him over the top of her wine, head slightly tilted, a small smile on her lips. “You remember he wasn’t wearing his jacket?”

Arthur blinked, hoping his flush would be attributed to the fire. “I… He whines a lot!”

“Arthur,” Mithian half-chuckled, placing her goblet on the table and leaning forward toward him in her chair. Her gaze turned thoughtful then, fixing him in a way that made him afraid to move, lest it give something away. “I heard about what happened in the courtyard after I left. Between you and Merlin.”

“That was-” He paused, uncertain how much she would have heard, how much he could lie. “It was nothing.”

“It didn’t sound like nothing,” she replied easily, “and I- Well, I must admit, I believe I may have been at fault.”

“What?” Arthur blurted, completely taken aback by that turn of the conversation. “How? You were not even there.”

All the while, Mithian continued smiling knowingly. “I think my arrival may have brought on your argument. I know Merlin was not pleased to hear of the betrothal.”

“It’s not that,” Arthur sighed, rubbing at his temple in guilt. “He was upset I didn’t tell him.”

“As well he should be,” Mithian snipped, and Arthur snapped to her, surprised, “but that is not why I’m bringing this up. I’m wondering, Arthur, _why_ you didn’t tell him. I understand you two were not on the best of terms at the time”—she lifted her eyebrows, and Arthur shrugged in admittance—“but, beyond that, you didn’t even tell _Morgana_! Arthur, I have to ask.” She leaned forward, reaching her hands out to rest gingerly on one of his own on his knee. “If you were asked now, now that you know Merlin isn’t leaving,”—Arthur opened his mouth to argue the irrelevance, but Mithian quieted him with a hand—“would you still agree to marry me?”

Arthur went ahead anyway. “Mithian, my argument with Merlin has _nothing_ to do with-”

“Not directly, maybe,” Mithian interrupted, “but you thought he was _leaving_ , Arthur. You thought he wasn’t going to be here, and now…now he is, and you remember he was wearing his _jacket_ , Arthur,” she chuckled, a helplessly sad sound as she shook her head, eyes glittering. “You remember his _jacket_.”

Arthur swallowed, looking away. He’d known, of course he’d known, or at least suspected. It wasn’t normal for someone to know the things he knew about Merlin, to pick up on every subtle nuance of his behavior, and it especially wasn’t normal for a _prince_ to known those things about his _manservant_. He shouldn’t know the types of cheese Merlin did and didn’t like, the different meanings of the slightly different furrows of his brow, the twitch of his mouth that meant he so dearly wanted to laugh but couldn’t. He shouldn’t know any of it, and he certainly shouldn’t care enough to remember, to hold those things so tight, he could conjure Merlin in his dreams when they hadn’t been speaking, blue eyes twinkling as he called Arthur a prat over something or other. But, of course, some things were only suitable to be admitted to yourself.

“I told you,” Arthur muttered, “he whines a lot.”

Mithian tilted her head pityingly, and then pulled away, shaking her head. “Arthur, if you tell me right now you still want to marry me, I will formally give my consent tomorrow at the meeting and we’ll start planning right away.” She looked to him, eyes soft. “But, if you don’t, you should know I have my father’s ear. He would not wish me to be unhappy, or to be married if I did not feel I could be content. I would not mention our conversation, and no blame would fall on you.”

Arthur stared into the fire, mind racing and heart pounding.

“Arthur?” Mithian prompted, leaning forward to catch his eyes. “For once, think of yourself,” she urged, expression earnest. “What do _you_ want?”

\---

“Was it me?”

“What?” Arthur muttered, turning to his manservant, or at least he thought he was again.

Merlin leaned against the side of the wall beside him, looking out over Mithian’s leaving caravan. “Am I why she left? She said something to me in the forest, and I probably could have been a bit _nicer_ about it, but I didn’t think she-”

“What? Merlin, no,” Arthur interrupted, shaking his head amusedly. “No, it had nothing to do with you. She just...” He trailed off, looking out after the departing princess, her form obvious from the long trail of brown hair. “She wanted something more.”

“More than what? More than you?” Merlin asked, somewhere between amused and defensive. “Because, I mean, I suppose I can understand that-”

“Nice.”

“-but, still, you’re the crown prince of Camelot! Surely that counts for something.”

Arthur smiled at him, shaking his head. “No, it wasn’t that. She didn’t want to marry someone she didn’t…care for,” he said delicately, more sentimental words always difficult to push from his mouth.

“And you?” Merlin asked softly, inching closer and prompting Arthur to look at him. “Did you- Did _you_ care for _her_?”

“Mithian is a remarkable woman,” he said mildly, looking back out after the retreating figure, “but…no. No, I didn’t. Not in the way she required. Or _I_ required, for that matter.”

Merlin turned to him in his peripheral vision. “But I thought- I thought you didn’t mind. Marrying for Camelot and all that.”

At the threshold of the forest, Mithian’s horse had stopped, spinning around to turn her back toward the castle, and Arthur would swear he felt the moment her eyes landed on him. She lifted her hand, just a single, farewell raise, and Arthur returned it, drawing Merlin’s curious eyes just as the woman turned and trotted into the trees.

“I suppose,” Arthur said softly, turning a small smile at his servant, “people sometimes change,” and, after a blink, Merlin beamed.

\---

The Everyman Tournament was the highlight of the year, according to everyone but Merlin. He had been running from inn to pub to inn all day, getting registration information and doling out numbers, and, every time he came back with a fresh batch of names for the boards, Arthur would give him the same exceptionally helpful advice.

“It wouldn’t take as long if you ran faster,” he would smirk, and Merlin would sneer, sometimes throw a scroll at him, and then leave again, off to stick his head into the next drunken brawl to ask if they were competing.

“I don’t see what all the fuss is about,” Merlin whinged bitterly to Gwen, walking with her a ways as their paths crossed: hers to the water pump, his to The Rising Sun. “I mean, it’s not like any of them will _win_.”

“Most people just come to be a part of it, I think,” Gwen shrugged, for-now-empty bucket swinging between them. “The big attraction has always been Arthur, and, since the king has decided to compete again, they’ll likely have to fight at some point.”

Merlin turned to her, surprised. “They will?” he questioned. “I thought they’d just skip over that or something. Keep them in separate groups.”

Gwen shook her head. “That’s what Arthur wanted to do, but Uther wouldn’t have it. After that council member made that joke about Uther being past his prime, he’s been dead set on proving he’s still the best. And, if you want to prove you’re the best-”

“You have to go through Arthur,” Merlin finished, sighing as he pinched at the bone between his brows. “But it’s all so stupid! It’s his _son_ , for chrissake! Surely it doesn’t matter which one of them wins; it looks good for Camelot either way.”

“It matters when you’re Uther,” Gwen replied, smiling sympathetically, and Merlin shook his head, the ways of royalty beyond him.

“But it’s _dangerous_! I mean, some of these people”—he waved a hand at the streets, littered with ax-wielding hopefuls who had more teeth missing than there—“are _mercenaries_ , Gwen! Trained killers! What if- What if someone’s trying to get to Uther, and goes up against Arthur first? There’s no bounds on this tournament; they can play to the death if they want.”

Gwen stopped, turning to him, confused concerned creasing over her face. “You think one of these people might want to kill Uther?” she asked, and of course that’s the bit she would pick up on, that small hesitation in Merlin’s entire speech.

Merlin hated how good he was getting at this, and it was almost comforting to feel the lump in his throat, to know he still had enough conscience left for guilt. “No, of course not,” he muttered, waving a hand as if the idea were ridiculous. “I’m just saying some of them are pretty barbaric. I wouldn’t put it past them to cheat, especially if the king is involved. That’s a lot of glory on the line.”

Gwen frowned thoughtfully, but no longer appeared suspicious. “Yes, you’re-you’re right… But, I wouldn’t worry.” She brightened, pausing beside the water pump, where they would part ways. “Uther is a very capable warrior. And, cheating or not, no one will get that far if they have to go through Arthur.” She smiled, certainly etched firmly in the curve of her mouth, and Merlin struggled to return it. “Well, you’d better go,” she said, sitting her bucket below the spout and reaching up to the handle. “Can’t keep His Highness waiting.”

“His Highness,” Merlin muttered, and Gwen laughed. “Maybe if I take long enough, he’ll come down and do it himself.”

“Oh, I doubt that,” Gwen airily replied. “He’d come down alright, but only to lock you in the stocks.”

Merlin smiled, inclining his head in agreement, and Gwen laughed again, waving him away. He turned, weaving his way through the crowds and murmuring apologies every time he was jostled, far too small and unable to use magic to get into any kind of altercation with this lot. As he approached the door of The Rising Sun, it opened, and he leapt back to allow the man to come striding out.

He was tall, with dark skin and a black beard trimmed close to his face. He was wearing a faded purple cloak, the hood of which he pulled up as he exited, and the light of the sun caught on what appeared to be a talon fastened into a necklace over his sternum.

Merlin stared at him, wide-eyed, his mouth dropping open, and his blood froze in his veins as the man looked at him.

Myror narrowed his eyes, head tilting just a little, and stopped as the door closed behind him. “Do I know you?” he asked.

Merlin couldn’t breathe. He shook his head.

“Do you work here at the inn?” the man asked again, taking a small step forward, and Merlin fought the urge to bolt.

“No, I-I work up in the castle, sir,” he muttered, and the pathetic terror of his voice was probably helping his cause. “I’ve been sent to collect registrations for the tournament.”

“Ah,” Myror said, smiling mischievously as he approached, and Merlin regretted all those times he insisted to Arthur he didn’t need a dagger. “Is that the list?” was all the man said though, pointing down to the scroll in Merlin’s hands.

Mutely, Merlin nodded, pulling the wrapped parchment out in front of him. “Are you competing, sir?” he asked, though he already knew, could see the purse he had handed the man all those weeks ago tied to his belt.

Myror nodded, and Merlin busied himself with unfurling the scroll, fumbling awkward with the quill and ink he usually had a table on which to sit. He managed, however, and, after asking some perfunctory questions, ‘Gilli’ was added to the list.

“Do you know what group I’ll be in?” Myror asked as Merlin rolled the parchment loosely, knowing he was just going to have to open it again the moment he stepped inside.

“Not yet,” Merlin replied, shaking his head. “That’s to be arranged this evening. The rosters should be up by tomorrow afternoon.”

Myror nodded, and then smiled that chilling curve of teeth again. “Any chance _you_ could ensure I get into one that Prince Arthur _isn’t_ in?” he seduced, moving so as to purposefully rattle the coins at his hip.

Merlin ducked his head to cover his swallow, shaking it regretfully. “I’m sorry, sir. I merely collect the names. The knights decide upon the groupings.”

“Pity,” Myror shrugged, clearly not bothered. “But I shall live in hope,” he added, smiling brightly as he nodded in goodbye, turning away and heading out into the town.

It was a long moment before Merlin could move, gripping onto the wooden column behind him for support, uncaring of the splinters he could feel reaching toward his veins.

He had almost forgotten—well, no, he hadn’t forgotten, but he had wanted to, fought against his nightmares to pretend this was never going to happen, told himself that assassins went back on their word all the time, especially after they’d been paid. Myror was probably living it up in a brothel, or had met his match in a mob of bandits, or so Merlin had told himself whenever he watched Arthur reading over his letters late at night, the candle casting warm shadows over his furrowed face, and, when he looked up, smiling weakly as he told Merlin he could go to bed if he wanted, Merlin convinced himself it would all come to nothing just so he could sleep.

But he had been wrong, so terribly wrong, and though his qualms—if he were being honest—were less about Uther’s safety than about the hurt it would cause Arthur, guilt still clogged his throat, and he could not swallow it down. Hopefully, it would not matter. Hopefully, Myror would be defeated long before he could come up against Arthur, or at least be in a different group.

Knees still shaking, mind still elsewhere, Merlin wandered into The Rising Sun, promptly bumping into someone and dropping his parchment.

“Hey!” a massive man bellowed, his leather vest exposing his bare arms, which were scrawled and swirled with tattoos. “Watch where yur goin’!”

“Sorry,” Merlin murmured, bending down to retrieve his scroll.

A fur-lined boot appeared, kicking the list away, and that was when Merlin knew he was in trouble, kneeling on the floor, the man chuckling low and mocking above him. He sneered when Merlin looked up, exposing blackened teeth. “Oops,” he drawled, and there was a snickering crowd gathering now, drawn to the smell of imminent blood.

Without a word, Merlin reached forward, stretching farther to pick up the scroll where it now lay, but another boot, this time from the other side of the circle, kicked it once again out of his reach. He withdrew his hand, clenching in against the dirt floor.

“Well, go on,” the first man taunted, kicking lightly at Merlin’s ankle. “Pick it up.”

Another ripple of laughter rustled through the crowd, and Merlin knew there was nothing for it now, but he at least didn’t want to face the beating on all fours. Slowly, he stood, brushing off the knees of his trousers. He flicked a glance at the first man, carefully bereft of emotion, and then made to step across toward the scroll. Another leg, different than either of the others, stuck out from the ring, tripping him, and he pitched forward toward the ground, hands outstretching beneath him. But he never hit.

“Woah there!” came a gruff chuckle, and strong hands grabbed onto Merlin’s biceps, steadying him the few moments necessary for Merlin to get his footing.

He looked up and met brown eyes, crinkled with amusement where they sat within an unshaven face framed with dark hair.

“You oughta be more careful,” the man smiled, but it stiffened slightly as he looked over Merlin’s shoulder to the gathered group. “Pretty things like you don’t last long in a place like this.”

Merlin had spent far too much time around Arthur and the knights to be affected by such a comment, but the massive grin that split the man’s face was new, and terribly charming, and Merlin felt himself fluster a little.

“Mind your own business,” the brute Merlin had bumped into said, stepping forward, but the man Merlin was quickly coming to see as his savior stepped up as well, meeting him in the middle.

“My _business_ is trying to have a quiet drink at the bar, and your little masculinity contest is interfering, so I’d say this is my business, wouldn’t you?”

The tattooed man glowered, jaw clicking as he ground his teeth. “I’d go back to that drink if I was you, _boy_ ,” the man spat, quite literally.

The long-haired man flinched, turning his face as he slowly lifted his hand, brushing the splatters of spittle off his cheeks. He looked down at his fingers, tilting his head as if considering. “Right then,” he murmured, and then, quite suddenly, Merlin was in the middle of a brawl.

Merlin’s man threw the first punch, catching the massive barbarian completely off-guard, but the hit was heavy and solid, surprise not the only reason the man stumbled backward, crashing into his fellows. He rose quickly, however, pushed up by the others, and went at the brown-eyed man, who dodged, pushing Merlin out of the way as he went.

Merlin was jostled around the fringes, ducking and shimmying around the smaller fights that broke out along the edges, people just turning on one another and pounding, as if they’d been growing deeply resentful of the way the other breathed and could no longer contain their fury. It was madness, and Merlin was bound to end up in pain, but he stayed, feeling he had to keep track of his friend, make sure he didn’t come to any harm on Merlin’s account. Luckily for him, the stranger seemed to be holding his own, agile kicks and blows thrown every direction as he beat off opponent after opponent, until he took a hard hit to the jaw, stumbling back, and then, just as abruptly as it started, the fight was over.

A massive man, the type of large that made trees cower, approached, brushing challengers aside like flies until the path just cleared for him as he made his way to the center. “Stop!” he barked, and, miraculously, everyone did, staring up at him warily. All except the man who had helped Merlin, that is.

“I had it under control,” he muttered, but it was good-natured, and the giant smiled down at him as the smaller man came to his side.

“Of course you did,” he replied, and then looked out across the group. His eyes caught the scroll that had started this whole thing, and he picked it up, unravelling it a bit before looking to Merlin. “You’re taking names for the tournament?” he asked.

There was a murmur of intrigue when Merlin nodded, stepping forward.

The gargantuan man beamed at him, and it looked ridiculous, so kind an expression atop a neck as thick as a tree trunk. “Well, you can sign us up,” he said brightly, handing Merlin down the roll. “I’m Percival, and this here is Gwaine.”

“Eh,” Gwaine murmured in greeting, flicking a two-finger salute as his other hand worked his jaw.

“Er, Merlin,” Merlin mumbled, nodding to them in turn as he took the scroll, amazed when the men cleared away for him to roll it out on a table. He pulled his quill and ink from the small satchel over his shoulder, relieved it hadn’t broken in the scuffle, and scrawled out the two men’s names. “And what’s your weapon of choice?” Merlin asked, looking between them as they came closer, the others forming a tentative sort of line behind them, shuffling guiltily, and Merlin soaked in the awkwardness on their faces like it was feeding his very soul.

“Sword,” Percival answered, leaning over the parchment, his figure putting Merlin completely in shadow as he blocked the light. “Both of us.”

“Yeah, we’re great with swords,” Gwaine chimed in, leaning against the edge of the table, his jaw already on its way to bruising, but he winked anyway. “Swinging, stabbing, _polishing_. Excellent hands, this one,” he added with a nod to Percival, who shook his head.

“Gwaine,” he muttered as he flashed Merlin an apologetic look, but Merlin only grinned.

“I’m just saying,” Gwaine continued airily, shrugging as he slid around Percival’s back to stand next to Merlin, who laughed.

“Well, I’ll leave that out, if it’s all the same to you,” he answered, and Percival smiled while Gwaine guffawed.

“So what _is_ someone like you doing down here?” Gwaine asked, seemingly unable to keep still, bobbing this way and that as he hovered around them, watching Merlin write. “I meant what I said; you are _far_ too pretty for this sort of work.”

“Gwaine!” Percival hissed, and, for a moment, Merlin was afraid he was offended, and looked up in a fright, praying he had not earned the jealous wrath of this gigantic man. As it was, however, Percival was glaring at Gwaine.

“What?” Gwaine chirped innocently, lifting his palms up to his shoulders. “I can’t _look_?”

Percival rolled his eyes before looking back to Merlin, almost grimacing. “Sorry about him,” he murmured. “He’s always like this with new people.”

Merlin chuckled. “I’ll try not to be too flattered then,” he replied, and Percival looked suddenly quite contrite.

“No, I-I didn’t mean- You’re not _not_ pretty, it’s just that-”

Merlin couldn’t help it, couldn’t force himself to remember that this man could kill him like swatting a fly, and burst into laughter. “I’m-I’m _joking_ ,” he managed, shaking his head, and Percival smiled, almost sheepish. He truly was a ridiculous contradiction. “I’m the crown prince’s servant,” Merlin answered as he finished their names, straightening up.

“Is that what they’re calling it nowadays,” Gwaine muttered, waggling his eyebrows as Percival shushed him.

Merlin just grinned, finding it quite difficult to stop in the presence of these two. He wanted to know more about them, wanted to know where they had come from, how long they had known one another, because they seemed so comfortable, so in tune, almost like… He felt the smile dim on his face. No, he and Arthur were not like this, could never be like this. Arthur was a prince, Merlin was a servant, and, if that were not reason enough, Arthur had to marry a _woman_ , had to have _children_. They could never be what he suspected Gwaine and Percival were to one another. They could never even be friends.

He cleared his throat. “Well, I should…” He trailed off, waving his quill at the queue of incredibly scary men, some swaying in various stages of drunkenness. It was going to be a long day.

“Can we help?” Percival asked, likely picking up on the dread Merlin could feel on his face. “The barman has some quills and ink behind the counter, and we can both write well enough for this.”

“I-” Merlin hesitated. Would Arthur recognize handwriting that wasn’t his? Would he care? No, Arthur wouldn’t notice a thing like that, it was far too sentimental a detail. “Yes, thank you,” he answered, smiling as he nodded. “That would be great.”

The queue went quickly after that, six hands moving over the paper instead of his two, and Percival’s hulking presence kept everyone compliant, merely giving their information before scuttling off to their pints. They talked amicably, Merlin laughing at Gwaine’s ridiculously exaggerated stories that Percival quietly corrected along the way. At one point, he insisted Merlin call him Percy.

“Percival is such a mouthful,” he bemoaned, and Gwaine sputtered violently, unable to stop laughing enough to write for a long time after that, egged on by Percy’s deepening blush.

Once the list was done, they walked, Percy and Gwaine wanting to see the arena where the tournament would take place, and Percy asked Merlin questions about herbs and anatomy, listening intently while Gwaine made snoring noises.

“How do you do it?” Percy asked, thoughtful, eyes serious as he turned, and Gwaine stopped, going quiet as he walked alongside.

“Do what?” Merlin asked, tilting his head.

“Handle all of that?” Percy clarified, and he looked so solemn, so considering, that Merlin wondered if he had ever thought about his own life as deeply as Percy seemed to be thinking of it now.

The answer was no, of course, he hadn’t. It had just been that way, been necessary, been what he had to do. He didn’t have to worry about _how_ he handled it, he just had to handle it. He shrugged. “I dunno, I just…do.”

Percy nodded, as though Merlin was imparting deep wisdom as opposed to expressing ignorance.

“Merlin!”

Merlin winced, and Percy and Gwaine stopped, looking over his shoulders as Merlin slowly turned around. “Hey!” he chirped, lifting a hand to his shoulder in a jolt of greeting.

Arthur scowled as he stalked closer, eyeing the two men behind him warily, his steps—to his credit—only slowing for a moment as he took in the whole height of Percy. “You were supposed to be back _hours_ ago,” he snapped, hands on his hips, cutting an imposing figure as he stared Merlin down somehow from the same height.

“There were a lot more people that we thought,” he said, shrugging. “I only just got done.”

“Well, clearly not,” Arthur muttered, waving a hand at his companions, and there was more bitterness in his tone than Merlin thought the infraction warranted.

“I was coming back,” he sighed, rolling his eyes. “I was just showing Percival and Gwaine the arena.”

Arthur lifted an eyebrow.

“Oh, right!” Merlin blurted, twisting sidelong between the two factions. “This is Percival and Gwaine,” he said, gesturing to each of the men in turn. “And this is Ar- Prince Arthur. Crown prince Arthur. Of Camelot. Well, obviously, because that’s where we _are_ -”

“Merlin.”

“Sorry.” He sucked his lips in over his teeth, expecting a reprimand for once again neglecting propriety—and in front of other _people_ this time!—but nothing came.

“It’s good to meet you,” Arthur said, stepping forward, and Merlin automatically fell in at his side, the two pairs now standing parallel. “You’re here for the tournament, I presume?”

Percival, who had bowed politely, nodded. “Yes, Sire,” he said, and, though Merlin didn’t meet it, he could see Arthur giving him a ‘See? Other people know how to be respectful’ look in the corner of his eye. “We came down from the north. We heard about the tournament in a village we were passing through, and thought we might try our luck.”

“Well, I doubt luck will be much of a factor for yourself,” Arthur chuckled, looking over the man again. “Long sword, correct?”

Percival beamed with pride. “Yes, Sire,” he said, nodding eagerly. “Gwaine uses one as well.” He waved a hand back to his companion, who looked notably less impressed, but nodded.

Arthur turned his attention to the shorter man, tilting his head, eyes furrowing. “Gwaine…” he murmured. “That sounds familiar. Is it a family name?”

Something twitched at Gwaine’s mouth, and he shifted his stance in the dirt, noticeably uncomfortable. “No,” he snapped, rather more aggressive than necessary, and Merlin watched between them nervously as Arthur blinked, brow furrowing with confusion and affront.

Mercifully, however, he let it go, which was a miracle Merlin would consider later, when he didn’t have potential repeat scenarios to consider. “So how did you two have the great fortune of making Merlin’s acquaintance?”

Merlin gave him a flat look, which Arthur carefully didn’t return, smiling innocently between Gwaine and Percival, the former giving the prince and servant pair a curious look.

“We’re staying at The Rising Sun,” Percival answered. “Merlin came in to collect names for the tournament and, er-”

“Started a bar fight,” Gwaine helpfully interrupted, grinning as he came up to Percival’s side.

Merlin glared at him even as Arthur rounded on him.

“You _what_?” he spluttered, eyebrows lowering in disapproval.

“I didn’t _start_ it,” Merlin implored, still glaring at Gwaine, who smirked smugly back. “Some guys were just kicking my scroll around. _He_ started the fight.” He pointed at Gwaine, who blinked, the picture of false accusation.

“Did they hit you?” Arthur questioned, ignoring the Gwaine misdirect entirely as he leaned forward, tugging Merlin’s tunic lightly to prompt him to shift to face him as he looked him over.

“No, no one hit me,” Merlin muttered, rolling his eyes, and Arthur looked at him skeptically. “I’m not completely helpless, you know.”

Arthur scoffed. “Well, you did manage to start a tavern brawl over a roll of parchment, _soooo_ …”

“I told you!” Merlin snapped. “ _He_ started it!”

“And finished it,” Gwaine interrupted, and Merlin would have hated him if it wasn’t for that damn smile. “Well, technically, Perce finished it”—he slapped the man on the shoulder, prompting a sheepish smile—“but I helped.”

“I can see that,” Arthur said, nodding toward Gwaine’s face, which was darkening into a rather muddy crimson.

Gwaine, strangely, glared. “Yeah, well, not all of us have people we can ship out to fight our battles.”

“Gwaine,” Percival cautioned harshly, and, while Gwaine did not continue, his glare only sparked hotter.

Arthur blinked, eyes narrowing, his mouth opening as he began to step forward.

“Arthur,” Merlin plead, placing a hand lightly on the prince’s bicep as the man made to move past him.

Both Percy and Gwaine looked rather shocked, eyes shifting between Merlin’s hand on Arthur’s arm and Arthur’s furious face, but Gwaine looked the most disturbed, a completely nonplussed expression on his face as he looked bewilderedly down at Merlin’s pale fingers over Arthur’s red tunic.

Arthur huffed out a breath, muscles unwinding beneath Merlin’s grip, and Merlin slid his fingers away as Arthur leaned his weight back on his heels, the danger clearly passed. “Pleasure meeting you,” Arthur said perfunctorily, his nod directed more at Percival than Gwaine. “I look forward to facing you both in the tournament,” he added, and, this time, the comment switched targets. He turned, beginning to walk back to the castle.

“I’ll be up soon,” Merlin called after him, though Arthur hadn’t asked or ordered, and Arthur turned his head to nod over his shoulder, casting one last look over the trio. Merlin waited until he was far enough away to be out of earshot before whipping to Gwaine. “What the _hell_ , Gwaine!?”

Gwaine glared, crossing his arms over his chest. “The guy’s a prick,” he muttered, avoiding everyone’s eyes.

“You don’t even know him!” Merlin bleated as Percival too turned toward Gwaine, his face screaming disapproval. “And you can’t just talk to people like that! You’re lucky it was Arthur and not someone else, or you’d have your head on a pike right now!”

Gwaine snorted, but Percival stared him down.

“Gwaine, Merlin’s right,” he said, chiding edged with concern. “You’re lucky His Highness didn’t-”

“Oh, His Highness my _ass_!” Gwaine snarled, expression unaccountably furious. “He’s no better than the rest of us. Just because he lives up in his ivory tower doesn’t mean he gets to talk to me like-like-”

“Like what?” Merlin snipped, folding his arms as he glared in challenge. “How did he talk to you?”

Gwaine’s mouth snapped shut for a moment, his eyes tightening. “Well, it’s alright for you!” he exploded again. “You’re clearly his little _favorite_. Guess I wasn’t too far off the mark before, was I?”

“Gwaine!” Percival cried, horrified.

Merlin’s face burned, but hopefully it would appear to be fury and not humiliation, because, although Gwaine was still wrong, part of Merlin wished he wasn’t. “I am _not_ Arthur’s _favorite_ ,” Merlin spat, and there must have been quite a bit of conviction in it, as both Gwaine and Percival turned to him, surprised.

“Then why-” Gwaine trailed off, blinking, his eyes wandering. “But you seemed- You called him Arthur, and-and when you grabbed him…” He tilted his head, thoroughly perplexed. “He _listened_ to you. Why would a prince listen to a servant?”

Merlin looked away, not entirely certain how to answer that himself. Arthur could never admit to being his friend, never allow himself those sorts of connections, but there was undeniably _something_ , something more than just what a manservant is supposed to be to a prince. “I-I don’t know, he just…does,” Merlin shrugged, the best answer he could give right now. “It’s a bit of a long story. I saved his life, he saved mine.” He bobbed his head listlessly, indicating the complicated mess of it all. “It just…it just happened that way, I don’t know. He trusts me, I guess.”

Gwaine was frozen in a frown, just blinking blearily at him.

Merlin narrowed his eyes, refocusing. “And I don’t know what your problem is, but Arthur doesn’t deserve it,” he said firmly. He looked between them, softening a bit when his eyes turned to Percival. “I have to go,” he added, normal now as he took a small step back. “I’m sure I’ll see you around,” he said, and Percival nodded, smiling weakly at him, while Gwaine seemed almost as if caught in a spell, his body immobile as his eyes searched curiously over Merlin. “Goodnight,” Merlin bade, lifting a wave.

“Goodnight,” Percival returned, nodding once more, and the last thing Merlin saw before he turned toward the castle was Gwaine drop his head toward the ground.

\---

“Is everything in order?”

Merlin clenched his fingers around the edge of the mirror, forcing his face to remain impassive. “Yes, mistress,” he replied. “Everything is progressing as planned.”

It was a lie, of course, at least from where he was sitting, but, then again, Merlin’s plans were slightly different.

He had tried to ensure that Myror and Arthur would be in the same group, fiddling with the groupings list a little via a flick of his wrist and a glow of his eyes, but someone—likely someone carrying some of Myror’s coins—had gotten to it after him, and, on the day the groups were announced, Myror’s name was called at the very beginning of the group that would be challenging Arthur’s. Merlin’s only hope at that point had been that Myror was knocked out by another opponent before he reached Arthur, but the odds of that seemed to be dwindling as well.

Myror was fierce, his powerful swing difficult for even a seasoned knight to block, and many of them had fallen under his blade, although, much to Merlin’s relief, the man did not seem to thirst for needless blood—or maybe it was just blood he hadn’t been paid to shed. There had been injuries, of course, but Myror had never killed when his opponent was on the ground, never made that final swing or jab, and Merlin hoped that that would hold out should he face Arthur. Of course, that would mean Arthur would lose, which Merlin didn’t deem likely either. Not under ordinary circumstances, at least, but Myror was being paid to kill the king, meaning he would have to go through Arthur to do it, and Merlin wasn’t certain what methods a man such as Myror would resort to in order to complete a kill. Merlin had meant what he said to Gwen about being worried about men cheating, he had just meant it a bit more specifically than he’d let on.

Nimueh, of course, knew nothing of this, and she looked back to Merlin through the glass. “Make sure it stays that way. We can’t have any further mistakes.”

Merlin nodded, the threat in her tone coming through loud and clear. “I understand,” he said simply.

Nimueh smiled again, the hairs on the back of Merlin’s neck standing on end. “Good,” she said simply, and then her expression firmed once more. “Let me know when the deed is done. I expect a report before sunset.”

Merlin barely got the chance to nod before she was gone, the call disconnected, and he sighed, falling backward down onto his bed.

Today was the last day of the tournament before the final, today’s battles deciding who would be the champion in each group. Those fighters would compete in a four-man melee tomorrow, resulting in an overall champion, and then that person would face the king. At least Percival had ended up in Myror’s group, and looked like he would be facing Myror in one of the earlier rounds today. Merlin could only hope that one went Percival’s way. Of course, the main attraction of the day—apart from the constant presence of fear—was going to be Gwaine and Arthur.

The two had not necessarily been getting along better over the past few days, but it was difficult for them not to interact, what with being in the same grouping. They also both had Merlin in common, who seemed to find himself in the middle of more and more ridiculous disputes. If he was called in to assess whether a flag was more red or orange today, he was going to scream.

Merlin opened his eyes, staring up at his ceiling. He had to get up, he knew it, dawn creeping up the wall at just the right height to signal he would have time to eat before fetching Arthur his breakfast, but he lingered a few moments longer, savoring this bit of peace before the real world came crashing back to him. With a sigh, he did eventually rise, lazily wandering out into Gaius’ chambers, the old man already sitting at the table sipping his tea.

“You’re going to be late,” he said without any real heat, too used to uttering the warning to be concerned anymore. It probably didn’t help that they both knew Arthur wouldn’t do anything if he _was_ a little late, so all of Gaius’ warnings would come to naught.

“I’ve got time,” Merlin muttered back, pooling down onto the bench opposite Gaius, folding his arms to cradle his head atop them.

“Are you alright, my boy?” Gaius asked, and Merlin knew the look on his face before he even tilted his chin up, resting it on his forearm.

“Of course,” Merlin replied easily, but Gaius raised that eyebrow. “Why?”

Gaius just watched him a long moment, and Merlin held his breath. Finally, Gaius shook his head, dispelling the thought. “Nothing, I suppose,” he murmured, sipping his tea again. “You’ve just been rather quiet lately.”

“Tired,” Merlin replied, shrugging weakly. “This tournament has been a lot of work. Is it always this crowded?”

Gaius shook his head, resting his cup onto the table with a soft click. “No, not typically,” he answered. “It’s the most popular festival of the year, mind you, but there’s usually not quite so many people. I believe news of Uther competing may have travelled farther than he realized.” Gaius smiled, and Merlin forced his mouth to bend to his mind’s command and return it.

“Well, I should go,” Merlin said, half groaning it out as he pushed up to standing, his back sore from stress. “Don’t want Arthur and Gwaine killing one another before there’s a crowd there to watch.”

“I do wonder about that boy,” Gaius muttered, shaking his head. “Gwaine, you said? It seems to me I remember hearing about a Gwaine. Not _that_ Gwaine, mind you, an older one, but I believe it was a family name. He was a knight, died in battle many years ago. I believe he had a son…” Gaius trailed off, staring unfocused at the wall. Finally, he shook his head. “Oh, it’s probably nothing,” he dismissed, smiling softly. “An old man making up stories.”

Merlin smiled, tipping his head. “You’re not old, Uncle Gaius,” he said, adding in the title just because he knew it always made Gaius smile a little broader, and, sure enough, his cheeks creased more. “Maybe a bit senile,” Merlin joked, bobbing his head, “but not _old_.”

Gaius looked back at him, eyebrow raised critically, but his lips quirked up. “Thank you, Merlin,” he answered tonelessly. “You are always such a comfort.”

Merlin grinned, watching until Gaius could handle it no more and smiled himself, waving him away with a shaking head. Merlin continued smiling all the way up to Arthur’s chambers, but the prince’s barked orders quickly put a stop to that, and he was downright scowling by the time they clattered down to the practice area, Arthur’s sword and heavier pieces of armor he didn’t feel like wearing yet weighing down Merlin’s arms.

“Stop pouting, Merlin,” Arthur muttered as they reached his tent near the arena, a perk of being a knight or prince in a tournament of peasants, although he had invited Percival—Gwaine somewhat more reluctantly—to use it to prepare when they were in a match.

“I’m not _pouting_ ,” Merlin sniped back, and Arthur gave him a withering look over his shoulder. Merlin shifted the sword, glaring—not pouting—out over the tents as they walked.

“So,” Arthur said, and there was a stiffness about his voice that caught Merlin’s attention, “have you seen Gwaine yet today?”

Merlin frowned. “No,” he answered, armor shifting in his arms again. “Why?”

Arthur shrugged, avoiding his eyes. “Just curious. I was wondering how frightened he looked.”

Merlin snorted. “I don’t believe there is much that would frighten Gwaine,” he remarked innocently, or so he intended, but Arthur gave him a rather critical look. “What?” Merlin muttered, confused and embarrassed for some reason he didn’t understand.

Arthur shook his head. “Nothing,” he said, but there was rigidity to his shoulders than suggested otherwise.

Merlin made no comment on it, however, and followed in silence the remainder of the way to Arthur’s tent. Once inside, though, things did not improve.

“Hey, princess!” Gwaine greeted, grinning cheekily from where he was fastening a stiff leather greave, foot resting on a chair.

Arthur glowered, placing the helmet he had been carrying under his arm on the table with loud clang. “What are you doing in here?” he snapped, moving quickly toward Gwaine, requiring Merlin to hastily deposit his armful onto a table and follow. “You can’t be here. We have a match soon.”

“So?” Gwaine replied, lifting an eyebrow tauntingly. “It’s not a wedding. Not like I’m spoiling the surprise, seeing you in your dress before the big reveal.”

Arthur colored a little around the collar, but his jaw setting and fists clenching were by far the more pressing concerns.

Gwaine, perhaps sensing he’d stepped into the danger zone, chuckled, removing his foot from the chair and lifting his hands. “Relax, princess,” he soothed, and Arthur’s fingers wrapped tighter, “I only came here to get something from Merlin.”

“Me?” Merlin sputtered, so far from wanting to get involved. “I don’t have anything.”

Gwaine’s eyes twinkled as he moved around Arthur, his mouth opening, but Merlin shot him a sharp glare, cutting off whatever wholly inappropriate thing he was no doubt about to say.

The bearded man looked almost disappointed for a moment, and then brightened again, continuing to approach. “Well, you see, I don’t really have anyone here—no one to cheer me on, as it were—and so, I was rather hoping, as you’re the only person I know, that I might get a favor.” He grinned, Arthur paled, and Merlin looked between them, bewildered.

“A favor?” Merlin repeated, eyes squinting at Gwaine’s amusement. “Er, well, I suppose. What do you want me to do?”

Gwaine laughed, striding a bit closer, and Merlin saw Arthur’s feet shift just a little, solidifying his stance into a fighting one. “No, not a _favor_ , Merlin. Although I wouldn’t turn it down.” He waggled his eyebrows while Merlin rolled his eyes, Arthur having seemingly been turned to marble. “No, I meant a favor, like a token. For the fight.”

There was no air in here, noting to fill his lungs with, the entire room full of fire that burned hot on his cheeks and surged over his limbs. “Oh,” he said, barely more than a breath. He flicked a glance to Arthur, who looked horrible, his face twisted in torment, but he was looking away toward the ground. “I-” Merlin stammered, and Arthur winced. “What about Percy?” he asked abruptly, stomach leaping with hope. “You know him.”

Gwaine gave him a look, that disconcerting one he had that, although he was half-sober at even the best of times, made you feel like he knew you better than you did, that he was pulling on your strings and directing the moment just the way he’d envisioned it. “I do, but he’s busy,” Gwaine dismissed, waving a hand, and then pouted quite absurdly. “You’re all I’ve got, blue eyes.”

If Merlin didn’t die from humiliation, Arthur was going to kill him. “I- Gwaine-”

“If you’re taking requests, I’ll take the shirt,” the man interrupted, grin downright salacious. “Trousers might be a bit difficult to tie around my belt, but there’s always after.”

Merlin laughed, high and without humor, no idea what else to do with the nervous energy bouncing around his chest cavity.

“Or I guess that neck thing will do,” Gwaine muttered, tossing a hand gesture at the scrap of red over Merlin’s throat. “If you’re feeling modest.”

Merlin swallowed, regaining his grip on the moment. “Gwaine, I’m- I’m flattered, but…surely you can get someone else. The barmaid likes you!” he supplied hopefully, waving a hand out toward the tent flap as if the woman would suddenly appear. “I’m sure she’d give you her shirt!”

Gwaine laughed, shaking his head. “Naw, I don’t fancy her shirt. Too much embroidery. Terribly itchy.” He smiled crookedly, and Merlin was sure he was still asleep, because, though Gwaine was most assuredly joking, there was no mistaking the look in Arthur’s eyes, and it simply wasn’t possible that Arthur Pendragon was jealous unless Merlin was conjuring it in his subconscious. The dream did not fade away however, and Merlin smiled softly back at Gwaine, the desperation in Arthur’s eyes pushing the words out easily.

“Sorry, Gwaine,” he said, shrugging. “I’m a bit picky. Can’t just go handing my shirt out to everyone.”

Gwaine looked very much like he wanted to laugh, but forced it down into a pout. “I’m not special enough for your shirt?” he whined, but Merlin only smiled, guilt soothed by the joke.

“’Fraid not,” he sighed, lifting his hands helplessly. “I still think that barmaid’s a sure thing though.”

Gwaine chuckled, shaking his head. “Naw, I wasn’t joking about that embroidery bit. Ah, oh well. I’ll just go find Percy after all. He might need a rubdown after his first round.” He winked, sending Merlin into a loud laugh, and then left, darting through the tent flap and out into the sun.

Merlin watched him go, shaking his head, and was turning back to ask Arthur when he wanted to get ready when he found the prince right there, having silently crept up to be mere finger-lengths from Merlin’s nose. Merlin froze, staring into his eyes, too afraid to lean forward, too unwilling to move back. “Er…” he mumbled, looking between Arthur’s pale blue irises, and then found no more words forthcoming.

Arthur’s eyes twitched narrower. “I don’t like him,” he snapped, like this was supposed to mean something more than the sum of its parts.

Merlin raised an eyebrow. “I don’t think he’s all that fond of you either,” he replied slowly.

Arthur huffed through his nose, and then turned away, allowing Merlin to breathe again. “He’s nothing but a vagrant,” he muttered, shifting haphazardly at his armor on the table. “You shouldn’t hang around him so much.”

Merlin blinked with a puff of disbelieving laughter. “I’m sorry,” he said, lifting a hand, “are you telling me you don’t want me hanging out with Gwaine?”

“I didn’t say that,” Arthur snipped down at his gauntlet.

“No, but is that what you’re _saying_?” Merlin pressed, moving closer.

Arthur sighed irritably, mouth tight when he turned to Merlin. “I know better than to think I can tell you to do anything, Merlin,” he said, stiff and measured. “Now, if it’s not too much trouble, I should like to get into my armor.”

Merlin worked in uncharacteristic silence, Arthur’s mood still rolling off him in waves, and, without their usual stream of chatter, the job was done quickly, Merlin double-checking straps and buckles as he skittered around Arthur in a circle. When he was done, he lingered a moment at Arthur’s back, biting his lip. “He does like you, ya know,” he said, and Arthur’s shoulders stiffened. “I mean, he has some authority thing,” Merlin continued at a quick mutter, “but he really doesn’t seem to mind you. Talks about how good of a fighter you are sometimes when you’re not around. Says he’s better, of course”—he laughed awkwardly—“but still. I think you just got off on the wrong foot.”

“Why do you care?” Arthur snarled, turning to face him. “Why is it so important to you that I like him? It’s not like he’s sticking around, so don’t go getting your hopes up.”

“I- What?” Merlin spluttered, rattling his head. “I don’t care if you like him, and what do you mean ‘getting my hopes up’?”

Arthur’s eyes tightened at the edges, and he looked away. “Men like that don’t stay anywhere for long, Merlin,” he said stiffly. “It would be ill-advised to get… _attached_.”

“Attached? What are you-” Merlin blinked, staring at the side of Arthur’s face, watching as he licked over his lips before sucking them in between his teeth. “No,” he breathed, shaking his head. “No, I’m not- We’re not- Gwaine and I-”

“It’s fine, Merlin,” Arthur dismissed, turning his back with a small flick of his hand. “I-I don’t- It’s fine.”

“No, it’s _really_ not,” Merlin urged, moving to Arthur’s shoulder, trying to catch his evasive eyes. “Arthur, Gwaine and I are not together.”

Arthur’s blink was almost a wince, and he did not look up. “Merlin, you don’t have to lie to me. What you do in your own time is none of my-”

“No, Arthur!” Merlin laughed, because otherwise he would cry at the absolute ridiculousness of this entire humiliating situation. “I’m not lying! We are _not together_. Gwaine’s with Percy.”

Arthur snapped his head up. “He _is_!?” he blurted, and Merlin didn’t think he had ever seen anyone look so shocked.

“Yes!” Merlin cried, dizzy with relief. “Of course he is!”

“I- Are you sure?” Arthur asked urgently, tilting his head. “Did he tell you that?”

“Well, no,” Merlin muttered, flipping a hand dismissively, “but it’s obvious. You only have to _look_ at the two of them together to see.”

Arthur was breathing as though he’d just been punched in the stomach, thoroughly winded. He blinked at the ground, and Merlin was just about to ask if he was alright when he straightened, eyes alert again. “But then why was he asking _you_ for a favor?” he questioned, brow furrowed.

Merlin shrugged. “Probably just trying to wind you up. Throw you off before the match.”

Arthur’s mouth shut, that princely aloofness settling over his face once more. “Don’t know why he thinks I’d care,” he muttered, tugging at a strap of his gardbrace.

“No, of course not,” Merlin muttered, rolling his eyes as he moved away, fetching Arthur’s sword. “You only ordered me not to see him anymore.”

“I didn’t _say_ that!”

“Told me not to get my heart broken by that wandering rogue-”

“Merlin.”

“-who dances in and out of towns, plundering virtue wherever he roam.”

“Please,” Arthur scoffed, taking the sword and hooking it to his belt, “as if you haveany virtue _left_.”

Merlin stared at him, an expectant eyebrow rising as he waited for Arthur to catch up, and, sure enough, his eyes widened moments later.

When he looked up, expression frantic and flushed, Merlin was smirking.

“You were saying?” he prompted, flicking a brow for added emphasis, and Arthur colored further as he scowled. Merlin had never been so happy in his life.

“Nothing,” Arthur snarled, tugging at the bottom of his fauld. “Let’s go,” he added, striding toward the tent entrance.

Merlin laughed, loud and probably dangerously mocking, but it couldn’t be helped.

“Shut up,” Arthur hissed as they began walking toward the arena. “That conversation _never_ happened.”

“But it did though,” Merlin squealed, elated, and, even when Arthur grabbed him around the neck, digging his knuckles hard into Merlin’s scalp, he still couldn’t stop smiling.

\---

“He cheated!”

“Gwaine.”

“He cheated, I’m telling you!”

Percival rolled his eyes, and Merlin smiled, straddling the end of a bench in Gwaine’s tent, where he had gone after a rather sweaty and smug Arthur had dismissed him for what was left of the evening.

He would likely be on the practice field now, preparing for his match with Myror tomorrow, who, as today’s competitions had decided, would be facing him in the final tomorrow.

Merlin had watched Myror whenever he got the chance, peering between other spectators or out from under banners and pennants. The man was ruthless, striking determined and true with every blow, but he didn’t appear to be cheating, and he still had yet to deal a killing blow to his opponent once the man was defeated, but Merlin was still worried. He wasn’t sure what he was more worried about, though, having to deal with Arthur if he lost, or what Myror would do if Arthur won. Either way, there was nothing he could do about it tonight; he’d just have to keep a close eye on them both tomorrow.

“I highly doubt the prince would need to cheat, Gwaine,” Percy sighed, giving Merlin a long-suffering look that forced Merlin to duck a smile down to his knees.

“I’m telling you, he cheated!” Gwaine insisted, tossing a towel across the room after wiping his brow. “I don’t know how, but he did!”

“Gwaine,” Merlin groaned, rolling his head back to the ceiling, “Arthur’s far too proud to cheat, and, besides”—he shrugged, smirking lightly—“he doesn’t need to.”

Percy snorted while Gwaine glared.

“Yeah, well, I want a rematch,” he snarled, pointing down at Merlin, who snorted as he stood.

“What? The sun was in your eyes?”

“Actually, I wasn’t gonna mention it, but-”

Merlin laughed, cutting him off as he shook his head and crossed the tent to the exit. “Why don’t you go down to the tavern?” he suggested, dipping his head with a smile at the glaring man. “Put it on Arthur’s tab,” he added with a wink, and Gwaine instantly brightened.

“I like you,” he said, bobbing a finger at Merlin. “Good head on your shoulders. Think I’ll keep you around.”

“Lucky me,” Merlin mumbled, and he left Gwaine and Percival laughing as he walked back out through the tents.

He ambled along, hands in his pockets, neck craned back to scan across the first hint of stars.

“Merlin?”

He dropped his face, meeting Morgana’s inquiring gaze, which quickly broke into a smile that Merlin returned.

“I thought that was you. Arthur said to check over by Gwaine’s tent.”

Merlin scoffed. “I’m sure he did,” he murmured, imagining all too clearly the snide tone that remark came with.

Morgana chuckled, pretty much confirming his suspicions. Suddenly, out from behind her skirts, William darted out, racing to Merlin’s side.

“Merlin!” he beamed, peering up at him. “Did you _see_ Prince Arthur? I mean, Gwaine was really good too, but _wow_!”

Merlin chuckled, bending down closer to the boy’s height. “Yes, he fought well today.”

“And tomorrow he fights that guy, Gilli,” William continued, and Merlin swallowed stiffly.

“Er, yeah, he-he does. You’ve been keeping up with the fights well, William,” he answered with a quick nod. “Gilli is a very good fighter, though.”

“Yeah, but His Highness is better,” William said with the confidence that youth affords. He then furrowed his brow, tilting his head up at Merlin. “Why do you always call me William?”

Merlin pulled his head back, blinking as his lips twitched. “I- Because it’s your name.”

William shook his head. “I mean why do you never call me Will? Everyone else calls me Will.”

“I-I don’t know,” Merlin stammered, swallowing as he tried to ignore Morgana’s eyes boring into him. “I’d just rather call you William, I guess.”

“Why?” the boy pressed. “I don’t like William. My mum was the only one who called me William, and only when she was mad at me.”

Merlin smiled, but he could feel the anxiety in it. “Well, I’m not mad at you.”

“So then why don’t you call me Will?”

Merlin hesitated a moment, and then sighed, dropping his face. “Because, William, I-I knew someone named Will. A friend. A long time ago.”

“And you’ll get us mixed up?” the young boy asked, and Merlin chuckled.

“No, William, I-I just- Something happened to him—something bad—and…and it’s difficult to-to remember him.”

“Did he get hurt?” William asked, shuffling closer. “Like my sister?”

Merlin winced, turning his face away for a moment as he composed himself. “Yeah, he- Something like that.”

William, unbelievably, put his hand on Merlin’s shoulder. “I’m sad sometimes too,” he said, smiling faintly, “but then I think about how Sarah always told me not to cry, and I try not to be.”

Merlin stared at him, looking over the boy’s shoulder for a second to see Morgana lift a hand to her mouth, her eyes damp.

“I don’t think Will would want you to be sad either.” William smiled at him, sliding his hand away, and Merlin could only gape at him for several long seconds, in awe of this young boy in front of him, a boy with so much reason to hate, and yet he was standing there giving Merlin hope.

Slowly, Merlin smiled back. “No,” he said, shaking his head softly, “no, I don’t think he would.”

William beamed, and Merlin couldn’t help but grin back, rising slowly and placing a gentle hand on the boy’s head.

“You should get back to your room,” he said, ruffling the boy’s hair. “Arthur will want to start practicing first thing.”

“Alright,” William sighed, shuffling away toward Morgana. “Night, Morgana. Merlin.”

“Goodnight,” Morgana bade as the boy walked past her.

“Goodnight…Will,” Merlin replied, and the boy turned to beam at him in the growing dark before tearing off toward the castle.

Without a word, and yet her eyes were firing questions left and right, Morgana drew to his side. “Your friend,” she began, and Merlin flicked a glance to her, “that was before you came to Camelot?”

Merlin nodded, opening his mouth, but then faltered.

“Merlin,” Morgana prompted, and he turned to her. “You don’t have to tell me.”

“No, it’s-it’s fine,” Merlin assured, shrugging his shoulders. “It’s just…there was a raid in my village. Cenred’s men looking…looking for a sorcerer.”

There was a sharp intake of breath, but Morgana said nothing.

“Most of the village got away, but my mother and Will were killed in the fight,” he finished, looking off toward the torch-lit windows of the castle.

“Oh, Merlin,” Morgana said, placing a soft hand on his shoulder that he quickly skirted out from under.

“It’s fine, Morgana,” he assured, but her frown clearly didn’t believe him. “I- It was a long time ago.”

“That doesn’t make any difference,” she replied confidently, and Merlin couldn’t look at her as they fell silent. “My father died during The Purge while my mother was pregnant,” she continued, and Merlin’s eyes widened out at the castle, “and my mother took ill when I was very young. I-I hardly remember her.”

Merlin looked over to her to find her turning her face back toward him from the sky.

“It doesn’t matter how long it’s been, Merlin,” she said, smiling weakly. “Losing someone you love always hurts. And it never really stops.”

Merlin twitched a smile at the corner of his mouth reflexively before looking up to the now-prominent stars. “Morgana?” he asked after a long moment, and he saw her turn to him out of the corner of his eye. “If you- If you knew who was responsible, who took those people away from you, and you knew something was going to happen to them, something you could stop…would you? Or would you just let it happen, knowing they wouldn’t be able to hurt anyone else?”

Morgana’s eyes were burning into him, but he didn’t look over, couldn’t bear to. “Why would you ask something like that?”

Merlin shrugged. “I-I don’t know, I just- Will is so-” He trailed away, shaking his head with a sigh. “I don’t know how he can do that. I don’t know how he can forgive.”

Gently, a hand touched to his shoulder, and he turned to find Morgana looking at him with soft sympathy. “Revenge doesn’t help anyone, Merlin,” she said, shaking her head. “It’s no good combatting evil by sinking to its level.”

Merlin stared at her, blinking dumbly in the fading light, and then a thick shame settled heavily in his gut, creeping up to knot in his throat. He gave one quick nod, a show of understanding, and then pulled away from her grip. “Thanks, Morgana,” he grated out, clearing his throat. “I should-I should go.”

Morgana nodded in reply, folding her hands in front of her gown. “Of course. I’ll see you tomorrow for the match.”

“I’ll be the one under Arthur’s armor,” he answered, and she laughed, waving him goodbye as he turned toward the castle.

He ran briefly into Lancelot on the way up, sharing quick smiles and summaries of their days, and then slipped into Gaius’ chambers, the old man mercifully already asleep. As he lay awake on his pallet, staring up at the stone ceiling as moonlight gradually shifted across it with the hours, he thought in circles around his options, only one thing sticking clearly in his mind: Arthur would under no circumstances come to any harm.

\---

“He uses both hands, but he tends to favor the right for jabs.”

“I know, Merlin.”

“And don’t forget the hunting knife he keeps strapped to his ankle. It doesn’t have a long reach, but if you get too close-”

“I _know_ , Merlin.”

“And some of the servants were saying he seemed to be limping yesterday, favoring his left leg, so keep an eye out for an opportunity to-”

“Merlin!”

He stopped his fingers where they were triple-checking the buckles at Arthur’s shoulder, startling his eyes up into the prince’s.

Arthur huffed out an irritated breath that caught the edge of Merlin’s jaw. “We’ve gone over all of this a hundred times. Why are you so worried about this match?”

“I’m not worried,” Merlin argued, turning his attention to tugging at the buckle again.

“You’ve checked the fastenings three times.”

Merlin pulled his hand away, glaring into Arthur’s smirking face. “It’s the final,” he remarked flatly. “I’m just trying to make sure nothing goes wrong.”

Arthur blinked at him, tilting his head as he frowned.

“What?” Merlin murmured, shifting uneasily between his feet.

“Are you feeling alright?” Arthur asked, moving a hand toward Merlin’s forehead that he quickly pulled away from.

“I’m fine. What are you doing?” he snapped, batting at Arthur’s persistent fingers.

Arthur let his arm return to his side, smiling mockingly. “I just figure you must be sick. Doing your job and all that.”

Merlin sneered, and Arthur laughed, the sound following the servant as he fetched the sword off the table. “Here,” he snarled, and Arthur took the blade from him, still chuckling as he fastened it on. “You’ll be careful, though, right?” he asked without meaning to, and Arthur froze in his work, looking up at Merlin curiously.

“Of course,” he said seriously, but his puzzlement quickly turned to a smug smile. “Aren’t I always?”

Merlin rolled his eyes, but his lips twitched in spite of himself. After a moment, Arthur finishing tugging and twisting at pieces of his armor, Merlin turned to him at the flap of the tent? “Ready?” he asked.

Arthur took a breath, giving a curt nod at the end.

Merlin smiled, nodding back, and then peeled open the tent, stepping aside to allow Arthur to emerge.

The crowd erupted as they approached, Merlin stopping along the edge while Arthur continued into the flat ring of dirt that formed the arena. Myror was already there, wearing a helmet—something he had done in very few of his previous matches—and Merlin felt a strange surge of pride at that.

Arthur—his Arthur, his champion, his technical-master—was a formidable opponent, the kind even someone like Myror feared. Maybe Merlin didn’t have anything to worry about, maybe it would all be alright. But, as they squared off against one another, swords crossing at the points, the worried faces of knights and nobility surrounding them, Merlin’s heart stopped in the silence before the signal was called.

Myror lunged first, swiping out at Arthur’s torso, but the prince easily batted the blow away before one of his own, a swipe at the chest. Myror swatted that away, however, and they parried back and forth for a time, feet kicking up dust as they spun and pivoted.

Merlin held his breath, watching blow after blow, his lungs shrieking for air, but he dared not pull his attention away from the spectacle long enough to bother with it. Every swipe, every metallic clash that shattered the air, had his muscles leaping, fingers twitching out. His brain was constantly working on how he would intervene, the strategy ever-shifting as the duo moved and spun around one another, but then a diverted jab to Myror’s chest knocked the man’s helmet off, and Merlin’s breath caught in his throat, a tentative hope that his interference wouldn’t be necessary.

Arthur twisted his sword in his hand, holding the distance between he and Myror, and then lifted his own helmet off, shaking his sweat-slicked hair out of his eyes as he tossed the metal aside with a dull thunk.

Merlin wanted to scream. Damn Arthur and his neck-exposing honor!

Arthur tossed his sword between his hands, a tactic meant to confuse ones opponent as to which hand was your dominant, but Myror only copied the gesture, his smirk now exposed past his helmet.

When they lunged at each other again, it was obvious any reserve of energy they had been saving was now being tapped, and the air rang with the initial impact, sending a ripple of enthusiasm and anxiety through the crowd.

Uther leaned forward, peering over the edge of his box, while Morgana nearly left her seat entirely, Gwen right there at her shoulder.

The knights were gathered along the edges, some just on the opposite side of the entrance, standing a few meters away from Merlin, but he imagined they had equally worried looks on their faces.

Lancelot was standing nearest him, and their eyes met for a moment, Lancelot’s eyes shifting from general concern to something a little more pointed, and Merlin had no question about what his friend could be thinking.

He would do magic if he had to, however, he had already decided that. Arthur was not going to suffer for his moment of weakness, his blind anger and rage that had led to a stupid, _stupid_ decision, and he would take it back if he could—oh god would he take it back—because even saving Camelot from suffering at Uther’s hand was not worth the clatter of Myror’s blade against Arthur’s chest plate, the stumbling steps of his boots as he staggered backward under the blow, or the moment of panic in his pale blue eyes. Myror wouldn’t even be here if it wasn’t for Merlin, if it wasn’t for his idiotic vigilante pride, and if anything happened to Arthur…well, that blood would be on his hands.

Myror’s blade swept down again, and, for one heart-stopping moment, Merlin thought Arthur wouldn’t regain his balance in time, but, at the last moment, he shifted his feet, gripping the dirt as he moved into his stance and lifted his sword, blocking the impact with a blood-chilling clang.

Merlin took a half step forward, arm twitching up a few inches at his side, but he heard a sharp cough to his left, turning to see Lancelot giving him a stern look, but the panic was still present in his eyes. He looked back to the fight, biting at his lip, and he wasn’t the only one growing nervous. The ranks of knights were closing in, growing closer to Merlin’s position until they formed something of a line, Lancelot and Leon closest to his side. Gwaine and Percival had appeared from somewhere, now standing at Merlin’s right, and, where Percival looked concerned, Gwaine looked ready to jump in—something Merlin hoped wouldn’t be necessary, but he was glad for the similar sentiment.

Myror swung down at Arthur, the tip of the blade moving surely toward his chest, but Arthur twisted out of the way, catching Myror’s sword as his spin concluded. His weapon slid down Myror’s, catching at the hilt, and then he wrenched his grip, twisting the sword in Myror’s grip, bending his arm so awkwardly, he was forced to stumble to the side. At that moment, Arthur pulled his sword free, bringing it down hard into Myror’s side, and, while it did not break through to cause anything more than bruises, it did send the man tumbling into the dirt, his sword dropping away from his hand.

The entire arena breathed a collective sigh of relief as Arthur approached the downed man, panting heavily as he levelled his sword to Myror’s chest.

The assassin glared up at the prince, Merlin’s stomach clenching uneasily at the fury lodged there, but he made no move to pick up his sword and continue the fight.

“Do you yield?” Arthur’s voice rang out, impossibly steady considering the exertion, and Merlin may have rolled his eyes at the grandeur if he wasn’t so caught up in the response.

Myror did nothing but glower furiously for a long moment, his jaw twitching, but, finally, he nodded.

Arthur lowered his sword, clearly relieved, and the crowd erupted into cheers, people leaping to their feet. Arthur took a step back, turning to look across the stands, a broad grin on his face as he soaked in the celebration.

Merlin actually laughed at the relief unclenching his chest, the knights around him relaxing, and Lancelot slung his arm around Merlin, rattling him against his side as he joined in the laughter. Shaking his head in disbelief, thinking he may never have been so happy in his _entire_ life, he grinned wildly into the arena, watching the light play over Arthur’s armor.

And that was when it happened.

Merlin saw it as if in slow motion—Myror’s hand lunging for the hilt of his sword, his eyes blazing with revenge as they focused on Arthur’s turned back—and there was no time for magic, no time for even a shout, and Merlin sprung forward on purely instinct, wrenching Lancelot’s sword from its sheath as he charged into the arena before the others had so much as gasped, racing Myror’s blade as it stretched up toward Arthur’s side.

\---

Arthur didn’t entirely understand what had happened until it was over. One moment, he was looking up at the crowd, basking in his well-earned glory, and the next, the faces were turning to horror, panicked shouts and gasps coming from all around. He turned the direction of their eyes to see a flash of Gilli’s determined face, a glint of silver, and then something hit him hard in the chest, sending him staggering back as a silhouette eclipsed his view.

Merlin—and Arthur wasn’t entirely sure he hadn’t been hit in the head if he was seeing that—caught Gilli’s blade just before it impacted his unarmored chest, batting the weapon away. Keeping the blades in contact, he shifted his feet, rolling his wrists as he changed his grip, twisting around Gilli’s sword before sliding to the hilt, where he made a sharp twist, knocking the handle out of the man’s glove and sending the weapon tumbling away over the dirt. He must have cut him in the process, for Gilli shouted in pain, falling back to the ground, but, before he could rally, Merlin had stepped forward, sword tip just beneath the man’s throat, which bobbed with a swallow as Gilli anxiously lifted his chin away from the steel.

It probably wasn’t silent, but it seemed it to Arthur, staring between the steady edge of Merlin’s sword and the bare hint of the side of his face that he could see over the servant’s shoulder, jaw set and eyes pinched. The sound came roaring back a second later, however, and he found himself surrounded with red, his knights converging on the scene, pointing swords down at Gilli while barking orders and questions of concern.

“My lord! My lord, are you alright? My lord!? _Arthur!?_ ”

He blinked at Leon, who had laid a hand on his shoulder, shaking him lightly.

“I- Yes, I-I’m fine,” he replied, clearing his throat as he tried to reign in the shock that was finally giving way to a pounding heart.

“Arrest him!” he could hear his father shouting, although he could not see him through the crowd, and, for one, hysterical moment, Arthur thought he had meant Merlin, for he could no longer see the servant’s tousled head. Gilli was the one hauled to his feet, however, spitting curses as he was dragged out by Lancelot and Gwaine, who were struggling with the prisoner until Percival joined the group, wrenching the man’s arms back to a sharp yelp.

“Arthur!”

He followed the frantic shout to find Morgana landing on the dirt of the arena, no doubt having clamored over the wall and down through the stands to reach his side, an infringement on propriety he imagined Uther would lecture her for later. For now, however, he was glad to have her steadying hands on his arms.

“Are you alright?” she breathed, fingers roving over his armor and tunic, searching for chinks and tears. “My god, Arthur! He was so fast! I-I thought…for a moment…”

“Merlin…” Arthur interjected, not entirely sure how to finish, but Morgana nodded, smiling in a nervous twitch.

“I think I saw him leave right before they took Gilli away. Snuck out the side entrance. God, Arthur, if he hadn’t been there…” She shook her head, breathing a ragged breath out to the ground.

“Which direction did he go, did you see?” he asked, suddenly unable to think about anything but finding him.

“I think I saw him heading toward the staircase. Over by the western corner. But, Arthur!” she called as he broke away, pushing his way through the still-lingering group of knights and onlookers. “Arthur, Uther will want to talk to you! You’ll have to decide about Gilli!”

“I’ll find him later!” Arthur shouted back, and her further protests were lost as he disappeared into the crowd. He sprinted out of the arena, looking side-to-side over the expanse of tense and curious eyes, and spotted a familiar head of white hair walking toward him from the castle. “Gaius!?” he called, waving a hand as he raced to the man, who looked relieved.

“Your Highness,” he sighed. “I was looking for you. I heard there was an incident in the arena.”

“Yes, I- Gaius, have you seen Merlin?” he panted, frenzied, and Gaius tilted his head at him with a frown.

“Why, yes. He ran past me on the stairs as I was heading down. Said something about an altercation between you and another fighter?”

“Yeah, um, Gaius, did he say where he was going?” Arthur asked, looking over his shoulder at the crowd that would soon shortly notice his absence.

“I believe he was heading up to the western tower, Sire. He often retreats to the upper levels when he wishes to avoid me. Archimedes is rather fond of the hawks and ravens that gather there.”

“Thank you,” he breathed, resting a hand briefly on Gaius’ arm in thanks before bustling past him, but he could feel the man’s curious eyes on his back. No doubt Gaius would discover the truth soon enough, and perhaps go in search of Merlin himself, so Arthur hurried up the steps, taking them two at a time, gritting his teeth as he regretted not stopping to remove his armor.

Eventually, and panting heavily, he reached the doors of the upper levels, opening the heavy doors and peering out to scan for his servant. He found him on the highest balcony, a small ring circling the base of the topmost section of the tower.

Merlin was sitting on the ground, leaning against the parapet, the large owl perched on one of the knees he had bent up in front of him.

Archimedes noticed him before Merlin did, turning his head and giving a small hoot and ruffle.

Merlin chuckled across at the owl, stroking down a wing, and then turned, expression quizzical as he looked to see what had captured the owl’s attention. His eyes widened when they landed on Arthur, his fingers stalling on the animal’s feathers for a moment before he looked away, continuing with his strokes.

Now that he was here, Arthur didn’t quite know what to say, but he stepped out onto the balcony anyway, letting the door close behind him. Slowly, he ambled toward the boy, clinking rather awkwardly in his armor, and, as he lowered himself to the ground beside Merlin, he began unfastening the various plates and panels. “Can you get that?” he asked, patting at his shoulder, gesturing to the buckles at his back that he couldn’t reach.

“Am I gonna have to carry it back down?” Merlin muttered, and Arthur laughed.

“Not by _yourself_ ,” Arthur conceded, and Merlin shook his head, but did help him with the leather straps.

They worked in silence, apart from the clicks and clinks of armor, until there was a small pile of metal assembled in front of them.

Arthur stretched, his knees popping with the new range of motion, and then he leaned back against the parapet, popping up one knee to balance his arm off of before he turned to the brunette. “Why didn’t you tell me?” he asked, disregarding several other options to go directly to his largest concern.

Merlin didn’t even pretend not to understand, shrugging as he scratched Archimedes around the ears. “You didn’t ask,” he murmured, “and…well, I didn’t think you’d like it.”

“Wouldn’t like it?” Arthur asked, turning to him more fully. “Merlin, you saved my life. Again!”

Merlin chuckled, but didn’t take his eyes off Archimedes. “A servant isn’t supposed to be trained in weaponry.”

“You were trained?” Arthur bleated, shocked. If Merlin had been trained, it hadn’t been in Camelot, which would mean he had likely been in someone else’s service before, or was perhaps not a peasant after all. Either way, Arthur was rather affronted at the secrecy.

Luckily, Merlin shook his head. “No, not really,” he shrugged. “I just…learned.” Archimedes made a strange chirping sort of sound, and Merlin smiled, flicking beneath his chin.

“Where?” Arthur asked, and Merlin stiffened, the corners of his mouth falling.

“I dunno. Before I came here,” he replied, somewhat cold.

“Did you ever fight?” Arthur pried, shuffling a little closer in hopes of softening the abrasive tone, but he wanted to know, _needed_ to know.

“When I had to,” Merlin sniped, turning to Arthur with a growing frown. “Why does it matter?”

“It doesn’t,” Arthur was quick to assure, uncertain why Merlin was being so defensive, but he hadn’t come up here to fight. “I-I was just curious.”

Merlin narrowed his eyes at him in scrutiny, and then relaxed, looking back to Archimedes with a sigh. “Do you remember when I said I had been a refugee for a while?” he said softly, and Arthur nodded, although Merlin didn’t turn. “Well…there was a raid on my village, Ealdor. Cenred’s men were looking for a-for a sorcerer.”

Arthur watched the stiff swallow moving down Merlin’s throat, but did not dare so much as breathe himself.

“When-When I said my mother had…had died, I- Well, she was killed in the raid.”

Arthur looked down at the ground between them, glad when Merlin continued, because he had no idea what to say.

“My best friend too. I-I don’t know how I got out—it’s all a blur—but the next thing I remember, I was in the back of a cart. A band of refugees had found me, bandaged me up and taken me along. There were a few trained warriors in the group, and I- Well,” he murmured, pausing to shrug as he slid his palm down Archimedes’ side. “I didn’t want to be helpless again,” he finished, voice sharp, and Arthur glanced up at him out of the corner of his eyes, wary.

After a moment, however, Merlin seemed to calm, breaths evening out as he leaned his head back against the wall, looking up at the sky.

It was silent for a long time, Merlin looking up while Arthur looked at him. “I-I’m sorry, Merlin,” he whispered, knowing it wasn’t enough, but he had to say something.

Merlin smiled softly, turning his eyes toward Arthur, an entirely new color of blue. “Thank you, Arthur,” he said, which, Arthur supposed, was about the best reply he could have had, although it did leave them in a rather awkward silence afterwards. “Do you think…” Merlin began hesitantly, and Arthur looked up at him, eager to move past worrying if he was breathing too loud in the stillness. “Do you think Uther will be angry? That I interfered? I mean, servants aren’t supposed to know anything about swords, and-and he might think- I’d never do anything,” he urged, turning to Arthur so quickly, Archimedes was thrown off his knees, flicking his wings to come to land on the edge of the parapet above them, glaring down reproachfully. “I wouldn’t- I’d never _hurt_ anyone.”

“Woah, Merlin, no!” Arthur interrupted earnestly, turning toward the servant, reaching his hands out to Merlin’s knee before catching himself and pulling it back. “I- You saved my _life_! You’ll be lucky to escape getting a parade in your honor, let alone be _punished_!”

“Oh, god, no, not a parade! Please don’t let them throw me a parade!”

Arthur couldn’t help but laugh at Merlin’s wide horrified eyes, and Merlin finally smiled himself, a welcome sight after the months Arthur had been without it, every new appearance sending a rush of leaping heat through his stomach. “I’ll see what I can do,” Arthur chuckled, and Merlin ducked his head shyly. “But, seriously, Merlin,” he said, and the man looked back up at him expectantly, “I know you’d never hurt anyone. No one would ever think that. You’re just- You’re just not capable.” He smiled, but, perplexingly, Merlin didn’t, growing pale as he looked away.

He did smile a moment later, but it was too bright, too sudden, and Arthur was left with a creeping sensation that he had missed something very important. “Well, good,” Merlin said, nodding a bit too jerkily. “I’m-I’m glad. We should go,” he muttered, rising off the ground and swatting at his trousers. “I’m sure people will be looking for you.”

“I- I guess,” Arthur murmured, looking up at the suspiciously nonchalant servant. “Merlin, are you-”

“Are you gonna help me with this?” Merlin interjected, beginning to gather up the armor.

Arthur watched him, watched the way he avoided his eyes, the way his hands moved a little less gracefully over the pieces, and frowned, but, if Merlin didn’t want to talk, there was nothing he could do. It hurt a bit, of course, that his manservant still felt a little like a stranger, hidden as he was behind the walls Arthur couldn’t ever seem to get anything more than glimpses beyond, but he could hopefully work on that. Hopefully it was just a matter of time.

“Yeah, sure,” Arthur replied, grabbing up his breastplate, and they spoke no further as they collected the armor and made their way down to Arthur’s rooms.

They had barely been in there a minute before a knock came to the door, Leon entering when Arthur called the person to enter.

“My lord,” Leon greeted, bowing. “The king is looking for you. He requests an audience in his chambers.”

“Alright,” Arthur sighed, the interruption expected, if still unwanted. “I’ll come right away.”

Leon nodded, ducking back out the door, and Arthur made to follow, but stopped at the edge of the table, turning back to where Merlin was getting the polishing oil out of the trunk at the base of the bed.

“Merlin?” he beckoned, and the man looked up, lifting a hand to brush a coil of hair off his forehead and nearly wiping the rest of the sentence from Arthur’s mind. “I- Thank you,” he mumbled, clearing his throat and his thoughts. “What-What I said before. When…When we fought a-about the girl-”

“Arthur, you don’t have to-” Merlin tried to halt, lifting a hand as he rose, but Arthur interrupted.

“No, I do,” he urged, and Merlin, perhaps because of something he saw in Arthur’s face as he scanned over it with curious eyes, remained silent. “A man has to admit when he’s wrong.”

Merlin startled, blinking as his lips parted, but he still did not speak, this time, apparently out of shock.

“I-I should have done more,” he said, and it burned up his throat, gathering there in a thick knot. He had known it for a while, had come to terms with his failure a thousand times over, but it was something different saying it, especially to Merlin, the only person who really deserved it. “I-I was wrong. You were right, and…and I was wrong.” He could look up from the table, twisting his fingers into the base of his tunic.

“Arthur,” Merlin breathed, and it sounded like forgiveness.

Sure enough, when Arthur looked up, the brunette was smiling, eyes soft. “I’m sorry, Merlin,” he added, the clarity necessary for his conscience. “Everything I said… I’m sorry.”

Merlin said nothing at first, only nodded down to the ground, words apparently beyond him.

Unable to stand it, Arthur turned away, opening the door.

“Arthur?” Merlin called him back, and he twisted his neck to the servant. Merlin’s lips moved soundlessly, and then he closed them, eyes looking away for a breath. “I- You’re not your father,” he said quietly, looking up at Arthur out of the tops of his eyes.

Arthur blinked for a moment, confused, and then broke into a wide smile. He nodded his thanks, which Merlin shyly returned, and then pushed through the door, striding toward his father’s chambers, all dread wiped from his mind.

\---

Merlin fell back onto the stone floor of the cavern, hands scrabbling over the sharp rocks as he pushed himself away. When he lifted his fingers to his lip, they pulled away bloodied.

“Myror is dead and Uther still lives! How could you let this happen!?” Nimueh charged toward him, hand falling down to her side after she struck him.

“He lost,” Merlin defended, staggering to his feet. “I only interfered to stop him killing Arthur. He wouldn’t have been able to kill Uther either way at that point.”

“Why did you let him lose?” she shouted, unmoved, her blue eyes blazing gold as the walls rattled. “You should have helped him! Tripped the prince up or something!”

“You mean use magic?” Merlin asked, unable to believe his ears. “I was in an arena full of people! Someone could have seen!”

“Sacrifices must be made for the sake of the mission!” Nimueh roared back, but Merlin held his ground, lifting his chin stubbornly.

“I am not dying for your pride,” he snarled, and Nimueh blinked, taken aback. “Uther is old, he won’t last much longer, and I believe Arthur can be reasoned with,” he attempted to soothe. “We can wait it out. Spend more time planning. It’s better that way; the people will never accept us if magic can be implicated in Uther’s death.”

“They will accept us because they will have no other choice!” Nimueh spat, advancing on him again, and Merlin retreated a couple small steps. “We have tried reason for long enough. Fear is our only weapon now.”

“Fear?” Merlin repeated, shaking his head. “What would that solve? _We_ live in fear now; what good would it do to merely switch our roles? What peace is that?”

“Peace,” Nimueh scoffed, sweeping her dress out behind her as she looked past Merlin, down the passage that led out of the cavern. “Peace is a coward’s dream, Merlin, nothing more. If you are not brave enough to fight with us-”

“There is no bravery in bloodshed,” Merlin interjected, low and cold, and Nimueh turned to him slowly, her eyes calculating slits.

“Take care, Merlin,” she hissed, and, though he felt a curl of fear in his gut, he narrowed his eyes boldly back. “Every conflict has collateral damage.”

Merlin forced himself not to swallow, not wanting to give her any hint of his fear, and, after a long moment, Nimueh’s expression turned less threatening and more curious, her gaze searching him up and down.

“I leave here in the morning,” she continued calmly, as if she hadn’t just been threatening him. “I will contact you when we have come up with a plan to clean up your mess.”

Merlin ignored the jibe, inclining his head the bare minimum before moving past her toward the tunnel.

Mordred was sitting on a rock outside, waiting for him. “Did she do that?” he asked, pointing at Merlin’s face, and he assumed it must have been his lip that was bleeding.

He nodded, swiping at it with his sleeve, and then hissing at the sharp sting. “I’ll have Gaius fix it when I get back to the castle,” he brushed off as Mordred approached him, eyes sympathetic.

“Why did you do it, Merlin,” he sighed, shaking his head. “You could have helped Myror, I know you could’ve gotten away with it. And you could’ve let him attack Arthur; he might have been able to get a jab in on the king when he came down.”

“The knights would have killed him the second Arthur fell,” Merlin answered, shaking his head. “And, if they hadn’t,” he continued, looking past Mordred toward the castle, “I would’ve.”

“Merlin,” Mordred hissed in censure, but Merlin only rattled his head.

“I won’t let anything happen to him,” he said firmly, and he was speaking to more than Mordred, swearing a threat against fate. “Arthur is not his father. He doesn’t deserve to die.”

Mordred blinked at him, a pained expression on his face, like Merlin had let him down catastrophically, and Merlin had to look away, the gaze irritating him more than provoking any shame.

“You leave in the morning?” he asked, pulling the conversation away, and Mordred nodded, though his face remained sour.

“Yeah, first light,” he replied.

Merlin nodded curtly in acknowledgement. “Well, safe travels,” he bade, and then passed the startled boy, climbing his way up the rocks toward the castle.

“Merlin!” Mordred called, and, for some reason, it frustrated Merlin beyond belief.

“What!?” he snarled, spinning around.

Mordred twitched back, eyes wide with alarm. “I- I just- Come with us,” he stammered, stepping forward as he entreated. “You- We can figure something else out. You don’t have to stay here.”

Merlin hung his head, suddenly exhausted, the weight of his two worlds crushing down on his shoulders. Slowly, he shook his head. “I’m sorry, Mordred,” he breathed, and the boy’s green eyes searched anxiously between his, “but I can’t ever go back.”

Mordred didn’t reply, appearances suggesting he was too stunned for words, and Merlin left him there, turning away and pointing his feet home.


	3. Chapter 3

Merlin rushed up toward the castle at the sound of the trumpets, not sure what was going on, but sure he would be barked at if he wasn’t there for it. The grass and flowers tugged at his boots, spring having settled firmly around Camelot, but he tore through them, racing past slow-moving townspeople. He caught sight of Gwen in the courtyard, an empty bucket swinging from her hands and beating against her calf as she ran toward the steps.

“Gwen!?” he called, and she paused, looking around before her eyes settled on him with relief.

“Merlin, thank heavens! Do you know what’s going on?”

He shook his head, and she frowned, looking back to the doors standing open at the top of the stone stairs.

“No one does. And I can’t find Lady Morgana anywhere,” she panted, clearly distraught.

Merlin pressed lightly on her elbow, urging her forward alongside him. “They’re probably inside. I’m sure we can find someone who knows,” he assured, and she smiled gratefully up at him as they hurried into the keep.

Sure enough, they quickly found a rather frazzled looking servant, who directed them with disjointed explanations toward the throne room. When they arrived, the doors were open, a crowd of muttering knights and lords exiting with disturbed expressions and frantic eyes.

They kept to the side, staying out of the way as they waited for their charges to appear, their heads tilting in every now and again to attempt to catch a hint of the subject matter. There was a break in the flow of people, and then a tall man strode out, black traveling cape billowing behind him. His sharp, angular face was drawn up into a sneer as he passed through the door, but he quickly smothered it as he caught sight of them, his eyes narrowing as he scanned them up and down. His hair was thin and receding, the nearly transparent blond slicked back over his head and bristling at his chin in a thin beard, and the entire effect was made even more sinister by a disgusted curl of his lips before his gaze left them, his boots clicking as he disappeared down the corridor.

“Who was-”

“No idea,” Merlin answered, and they both turned from the man’s path to share a concerned glance.

“My lady!” Gwen suddenly blurted, stepping forward, and, sure enough, Morgana appeared, looking deathly pale. “Are you alright?” Gwen fussed, taking her arm, but Morgana fixed her eyes on Merlin, sending a shock of dread down his spine.

“I’m fine,” she said distantly, finally shifting her eyes to Gwen. “We have merely received some unfortunate news, but I cannot discuss it here.” Again, she flashed a look at Merlin.

Gwen, however impossibly, nodded as if she understood. “Perhaps you should retire to your rooms for a time, my lady. Rest a bit.”

Morgana nodded, still a bit dazed. “Yes, I- I think that would be best.”

Gwen smiled, starting to lead Morgana away, her hands firm on the frail arm in support.

Morgana turned over her shoulder to fix Merlin with her eyes one last time, her expression unreadable, and then looked back to the front, moving along with Gwen’s careful steps.

“Merlin,” a voice barked behind him, and Merlin’s feet knew what was happening before he did, instinctively moving to Arthur’s side at the beckoning tone.

“What’s going on?” he asked, looking over Arthur’s stern countenance. “What happened to Morgana? And why did everyone look so-”

“Merlin!” Arthur hissed, silencing him, his pale eyes shifting around for onlookers. “Not here.” He jerked his head up at the nearby stairwell, and Merlin followed obediently, their trip silent until he closed the door of Arthur’s chambers behind them.

“Arthur, what’s going on?” he asked again as the prince bent over the table, palms planted on the wood as he sighed down at it. “What’s happened? Did- Is something wrong with Morgana?”

Arthur shook his head. “No,” he said softly, pushing up to pace toward the window, arms crossing over his chest. “Morgana’s fine. A little shaken, perhaps, but…” He trailed off, puffing out a sharp breath as he stilled, looking down into the courtyard below. “There was a man- You might have seen him, he came out just before we did.”

“The traveler?” Merlin asked, head tilting. “Old guy? Black coat?”

Arthur nodded. “His name is Aredian,” he explained, tone biting. “He’s- Well, they call him…a witch hunter.”

Merlin kept himself from gasping, but there was nothing he could do about his eyes widening, which Arthur saw as he turned around.

“He claims there’s an  _epidemic_  in Camelot,” he continued, clearly reproachful, and he glowered down at the stone as he paced back toward Merlin. “Says he can ‘sniff out’ sorcery,” he scoffed bitterly. “For a price, of course,” he added in a snide aside.

Merlin swallowed, dropping his face to the floor as he tried to control his heart pounding in his throat.

“Merlin, listen,” Arthur urged, suddenly very close, his hand on Merlin’s shoulder as he pushed him back slightly, prompting Merlin to lift his face. “You have to stay away from him,” he said, tone almost as earnest as his eyes. “He’s dangerous. People- Anyone who crosses him- Well…” He pulled his hand away, turning his head to gaze unfocused across the room. “Let’s just say they don’t stick around to say much else.”

Merlin blinked, mouth dry as it dropped open. “He-He accuses them of- of  _sorcery_?” he asked, dropping to a bare breath on the last word.

Arthur nodded gravely. “There’s no proof, of course,” he muttered, flicking his eyes to Merlin’s, “but the people who speak out against him often end up on the other end of an awful lot of pointed fingers.”

Merlin couldn’t speak, could barely keep himself breathing. Did Arthur know? Was he warning Merlin because he knew? But why, why would he bother? Why not throw Merlin at Aredian’s feet? Or was he saving the honor of execution for himself?

“Merlin, I know you can barely keep your mouth shut to save your life,” Arthur continued, but what little bite there was in it was negated by the naked concern in his face, “but it might really come to that this time. Whatever happens, you mustn’t interfere.”

Merlin blinked at him, lips parted, his mind still in a daze of relief. Arthur didn’t know. He was worried because Merlin had no manners, not magic.

“Merlin, please!” Arthur plead, and that snapped Merlin right back to reality, even if reality was, at the moment, a little unbelievable. Arthur stood extremely close, eyes searching between Merlin’s, and, at some point, his hands had gripped around Merlin’s biceps. “You can’t interfere. Promise me you won’t interfere!”

Merlin nodded dumbly, but Arthur didn’t look convinced, expression still strained. “I-I promise,” he finally pushed out, and Arthur, after one last search of his eyes, released his arms. “I’ll stay away from him.”

\---

“Aha!” Arthur cried as Percy’s sword slid away across the green to a chorus of cheers and shouts from the gathered knights.

Percival and Gwaine had stayed behind after the tournament, staying in the inn and training with Arthur and his knights. After the altercation with Gilli, Arthur had felt somewhat indebted to the two strangers, as willing as they had been to jump in on his behalf, and the other knights seem to like them. Of course, there was no way Arthur could make them knights—it had been hard enough to convince his father of Lancelot, let alone someone as crass as Gwaine—but he wasn’t quite willing to entirely give them up yet either. They didn’t seem to mind, however, and Arthur found he was getting a lot better at quick maneuvers by fighting Percy, strength being a useless weapon in such a match. He wasn’t learning much from Gwaine apart from how to cheat at dice, but that was useful in its own way as well, he supposed.

Percy smiled up at him, his constant reaction to defeat, and Arthur grinned as he extended a hand down to him.

“Pretend I’m actually helping you up?” he muttered under his breath, flashing a quick wink, and Percy laughed as he took his hand, Arthur barely managing not to stumble under the sudden weight.

“Bested again,” Gwaine tutted disapprovingly from the sidelines where he was leaning against a straw jousting dummy. “Those muscles are wasted on you, Perce, I’m tellin’ ya.”

“And what would you do with them?” Arthur jeered, a good-natured teasing Gwaine smirked at.

“Don’t worry, princess,” he taunted, and Arthur sneered at the name he hadn’t yet managed to shake. “I’d sweep you off your feet first.”

“Oh, good,” Arthur deadpanned. “That was going to keep me up at night.”

Gwaine laughed along with the others as he walked up, clapping a hand to Percy’s shoulder. “Naw, I wouldn’t bother. Be a waste of time, wouldn’t it? Your feet are already pretty swept.” He winked, and Arthur’s eyes narrowed in suspicion.

“What are you-” he began, but his attention was drawn by a flash of red over Gwaine’s shoulder.

Merlin was sitting on the edge of the green talking with Lancelot, laughing while the knight knocked him lightly on the shoulder.

Arthur’s gut wrenched. “I’ll be right back,” he muttered, and, as Gwaine followed his eye line, his face broke into a salacious grin.

He flashed a glance back at Arthur, flicking his eyebrows, and Arthur strode briskly away before he could blush.

“Merlin!” Arthur barked, and the servant, ever-insolent, lolled his head casually toward him. “Come here,” he added, a bit less harshly, as Merlin was inclined to demand to know why first if Arthur sounded too cross about it.

Merlin’s forehead furrowed, expression wary, but he slowly stood, beginning to walk across the green.

“Bring Lancelot’s sword,” Arthur added, and Merlin almost comically shocked to a halt, body going rigid as his jaw stiffened, eyes widening.

He said nothing, however, and merely turned back to Lancelot with a beckoning flick of his head.

Lancelot, for his part, looked suspiciously between the two of them, but did lift his sword from the grass in front of him, placing it in Merlin’s waiting palm.

With an awkwardness that must be practiced—and which infuriated Arthur for some reason—Merlin carried the sword to him, stopping in front, eyes narrowed shrewdly.

Arthur paused for a moment, a flash of reconsidering, and then straightened his spine. “Take it out,” he said, nodding toward the sheath.

Merlin didn’t move for a long moment, deep blue searching over Arthur’s face, and then, slowly, he slid the sword from the sheath, the hilt in his right hand while the discarded casing hung from his left.

“Gwaine?” Arthur bade, but did not take his eyes off Merlin’s, watching as the unshaved man stepped into his peripheral vision. “Take that from Merlin, would you?” He nodded down to the sheath in the man’s pale hand, and Merlin’s jaw twitched, gaze finally flitting from Arthur’s.

The stare broken, Arthur turned to Gwaine, who was looking between the two of them with clear suspicion.

“I’m not sure-”

“Here,” Merlin interrupted, and Gwaine broke off, looking down at the sheath Merlin passed to him in surprise. “It’s fine.”

Gwaine looked at the servant, the two of them sharing a look Arthur was less than comfortable with, and then the former rounded on him. “Listen here, princess, I don’t know what you’re playing at, but if you have a problem with Merlin-”

“I don’t have a  _problem_  with Merlin,” Arthur snapped, infinitely exhausted with his authority being questioned, at least by anyone who wasn’t his manservant. Which was rather backward, now that he considered it. “I merely think we could all benefit from him giving us a demonstration,” he explained, raising his voice just enough to pitch over their small gathering to the silent knights beyond.

Gwaine’s eyes widened sharply, Percy sucked in a breath, but it was Merlin’s whisper that seemed to Arthur to be the most dramatic reaction.

“Arthur,” he hissed, gaze shifting anxiously side-to-side, “I-I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

“Why not?” Arthur pressed, the conversation private—plus Gwaine and Percy—again. “I saw you. We all saw you. You can fight.”

“Yeah, well, I can juggle too,” Merlin snapped, leaning forward as he glowered, “but I won’t be beheaded for demonstrating  _that_!”

Arthur blinked, tilting his head. “You can juggle?”

“Arthur!” Merlin barked, and Arthur shook his head, centering himself once again.

“You’re not going to be beheaded, Merlin,” he sighed, rolling his eyes, and Merlin gaped at him in offense. “I asked you to do it; everyone  _saw_  me ask you to do it. You can’t be beheaded for following an order. Although you act like it most of the time.”

“But what if I win?” Merlin asked, ignoring the jab.

Arthur snorted. “You’re not going to win.”

“I might,” Merlin countered, twitching his eyebrows as Arthur stared at him.

Slowly, Arthur smiled. “Well, let’s just see,” he said, shrugging.

Merlin sighed in frustration, rattling his head. “Why?” he snapped. “Why do you wanna do this?”

Arthur blinked, trying to formulate a reason, because the truth was out of the question. The truth was that he hadn’t stopped thinking about how Merlin had helped him—saved him, if he were being honest. He hadn’t been able to get the set shoulders, the nimble grip, the deft maneuvers, or the blazing eyes out of his mind. Merlin had been something different then, had become something entirely different since, and Arthur…well, Arthur wasn’t sure how he felt about it. Whatever the feeling, it was keeping him up at night with questions, and making it hard for him to watch Merlin’s hands polishing his armor, so he had to get some answers. He had to know for sure.

“I-I just want to,” he muttered, avoiding blue eyes. “I’m curious.”

“And what if I  _do_  win?” Merlin asked sharply. “Are you going to be happy knowing, or angry you lost in front of your knights?”

“You’re not going to win,” Arthur reminded, and Merlin rolled his eyes, “but, even if you did—which you won’t—I…I would be fine.” He shrugged, trying to look as nonchalant as possible. “I wouldn’t be angry at  _you_ , anyway,” he amended, and Merlin looked a little less skeptical of that.

He sighed, shaking his head down at the ground. “Arthur-”

“Just do it,” Arthur interrupted, entreating, and Merlin looked up at him with desperate indecision. He had said please a few days ago, and couldn’t bring himself to do it again yet, but he tilted his head slightly, what he hoped was an unspoken addition.

Merlin opened his mouth, and then let out a great sigh. “Alright,” he relented, weakly shrugging his shoulders. “Alright. But don’t be an ass if you lose!” he added, thrusting his free hand up to point sharply in Arthur’s face.

“Me?” Arthur chirped innocently, grinning at the win. “Never.”

Merlin rolled his eyes, and then turned, putting a few steps between them before he looked back.

Gwaine pushed himself into Arthur’s face, glaring. “If you hurt him-”

“I won’t,” Arthur interrupted tiredly, the accusation too ridiculous to even entertain. “I wouldn’t,” he added more certainly, and Gwaine held his eyes for a moment before giving a crisp nod and backing away.

Percy followed, looking between the three of them warily, but said nothing.

Arthur twisted his sword in his grip, Merlin watching him, but not so much as twitching from his relaxed stance. “If you throw it,” Arthur said, ensuring his voice carried, calm and lightly teasing, “I’ll know.”

The corner of Merlin’s mouth twitched, and Arthur felt leagues better. “I wouldn’t dare, Sire,” he replied, shifting into a ready stance, twirling the sword in an arc with an effortless twist of his wrist before holding it aloft, awaiting a strike.

Absolute silence fell as the stood there, staring at one another, Arthur suddenly questioning whether he had taken it too far, whether he might hurt Merlin, whether he might get him into trouble.

Of course, then Merlin flicked his eyebrows in wordless taunt, and Arthur grinned, a brief flash before he lunged forward.

Merlin dove aside, batting Arthur’s sword back with the tip of his as he deflected most of the force, sending Arthur past him.

Arthur quickly spun back, however, delivering another blow toward Merlin’s side, which he blocked, lifting his arms and turning his wrists down to bring the sword across his torso. From that position, he had more leverage, wrenching his arms as he pushed their combined swords out and away, springing Arthur’s back toward him. He just got it up in time to block a strike to his opposite side, darting away as he deflected, the identical move Merlin had used in the beginning.

It was a shockingly even match, and, slowly, the trance seemed to wear off the gathered knights, and synchronized relieved cheers and anxious gasps could be heard from all around them, the direction constantly shifting as they spun around one another.

Arthur was sweating more than he had in a match against someone for a long time, Merlin faster where Arthur was stronger, keeping him moving nearly constantly, but Merlin was showing the strain as well, his face shining as his chest heaved.

It was always easy for Arthur to lose himself in a fight, in the clang of metal, scrape of dirt, beat of his heart, and breath of his opponent, but it was different with Merlin, the way everything was different with Merlin. Yes, he was sparring  _against_  him at the moment, but Arthur couldn’t quite shake or understand the sensation that somehow, in spite of that, they were still fighting together.

Arthur anticipated every twist of Merlin’s body, every arc of his blade, and Merlin matched him evenly strike for strike, always meeting Arthur’s attack with a ready defense, even at the last moment. There was nothing outside of this, outside of the drag of Merlin’s breath matching his, the two of them perfectly attuned, and Arthur wondered why it took a sword-fight for him to realize it had always been this way. Right from the start, Merlin had seeped into him, filling the cracks, a perfect fit to his jagged edges, and Arthur was suddenly overwhelmed with a need to tell him, to ensure the servant knew just how much he could never  _ever_ leave, because Arthur had stitched him in so thoroughly, there was no way Merlin could go without tearing him apart. And, even more intense, was the need to know if Merlin felt anywhere near the same, if he had any remote idea what this was like, but Arthur knew he wouldn’t ask, couldn’t ask. So, instead, he fought, losing himself in this dance they had been doing in one way or another for a very long time.

Merlin caught his sword on a downward strike, pushing it back up toward Arthur’s shoulder while he carried the momentum around to come at Arthur’s ribs under his arm.

Arthur stepped back, whistling his sword down double-handed to meet Merlin’s blade, twisting around at the base and wrenching up, a maneuver that would generally rip the sword from the opponent’s hand. Merlin held on however, shifting his two-handed grip to spare his wrists, and, when Arthur swung up, Merlin’s sword locked into his, both pointing straight up at the sky between them as they crashed together. And that was when everything went wrong.

They were in identical positions, swords interlocked overhead, arms stretched up to grip at their respective hilts, and standing far,  _far_  too close together, chests brushing with every heave of their lungs. Merlin’s breath was hot across his face, but the flush Arthur could feel creeping up his body was more from the way he looked: sweat-shined, hair sticking to his forehead atop eyes that shone unfairly blue as they shifted between Arthur’s.

Arthur blinked, breaths growing more ragged even though they were no longer moving, and, without permission or conscious thought, his eyes drifted down Merlin’s face to his lips, parting around raspy breaths. When he caught himself, turning his gaze sharply back up, Merlin’s eyes had widened, searching thoroughly over Arthur’s face as his pupils stretched, twisting Arthur’s stomach with a boiling jolt.

The whole scene lasted only a moment, however, and the shouts from the side quickly broke through, sending them staggering apart, flushed and avoiding one another’s eyes.

Arthur was still struggling to catch his breath when Leon reached him, clapping a hand to Arthur’s shoulder as he laughed.

“That was incredible!” he cheered, a loud chorus of agreement from the other knights that trickled into the group. “I wish you could’ve seen it, Sire! The two of you… It was amazing! I’ve never seen anything like it!”

Arthur smiled up at him, still feeling a little nauseous with shock. He looked over to Merlin, who looked similarly shaken as he was mauled by Gwaine, Lancelot, and Percy, his smile tremulous as he nodded at whatever they were saying.

With that uncanny ability he always had to sense Arthur’s eyes, he shifted his gaze, locking onto Arthur through the throng of shifting arms and shoulders.

“Yeah,” Arthur murmured back to Leon, eyes never parting from Merlin’s. “Yeah, I- I bet…”

\---

The first night it happened, Arthur did nothing, avoiding Merlin’s eyes and insisting he could dress himself that morning.

The second night, he went to Gaius, complaining of difficultly sleeping.

After the third night, the tonic apparently ineffective, Arthur awoke and just lay in bed, slinging an arm over his eyes as he panted heavily at the ceiling.

It was just a dream, a meaningless concoction of his subconscious, but, in all honestly, Arthur didn’t know how much more he could take.

The first one had been fairly tame, all things considered, the kind of thing he was able to brush off in the morning.

He had been sitting by the edge of a stream—one he thought he had seen on a hunting trip sometime last year—with his toes dangling in the water. Merlin had been setting up camp, a detail that he knew the way dreams often implanted knowledge, and then had appeared over the rise, laughing and scolding Arthur for making him do all the work. Arthur, naturally, had kicked water at him in retaliation, and Merlin had spluttered something about being grossly immature before sinking to Arthur’s side.

None of that had been untoward, and it was hardly the first time Merlin had featured in Arthur’s dreams, but he hadn’t been prepared for the turn it took.

Suddenly, and yet easily as anything, as if it wasn’t meant to be the most shocking thing imaginable, Arthur had leaned over, wrapping an arm around Merlin’s waist and tugging him closer, startling a laugh out of the man as he turned, and then, without any hesitation or prelude, Arthur had kissed him. Just kissed him! Like it was nothing, like they did it all the time, and, within the context of the dream, he knew they did, which was why it didn’t stun him until he woke up that Merlin kissed him back, the motion deepening until the brunette clamored into his lap, straddling across his hips as their hands tangled in each other’s hair.

Arthur had woken himself up out of self-preservation at that point, but, the next night, his mind would not be so kind.

If he had been at all aware while watching the dream, he would have known he was in trouble from the start. Merlin had been undressing him, chattering on about something or other while he slowly undid the buttons on Arthur’s tunic, and Dream Arthur—much to completely-different-person Real Arthur’s pride—had appeared entirely calm about it until Merlin had gotten to the fastenings of his trousers. Merlin, predictably, had been impossible about it, continuing to blabber away as if nothing was happening, as if he wasn’t pushing at Arthur’s cock through the fabric as he painstakingly worked the buttons. He talked on and on as Arthur’s breath hitched, fingers gripping onto the table beside him, only giving it up when he’d pulled Arthur entirely free, clumsily pushing the layers down to lock across his knees before latching his mouth onto Arthur’s neck. Arthur had made truly embarrassing noises he was sure he’d  _never_  make in reality, but he was equally sure he would never be able to shake the image of Merlin’s long fingers wrapped around his cock, shifting back and forward, a pale grip against the flushed skin. Of course, the truly traumatic—if you could call it that—moment was when Merlin slipped from his neck, trailing lips and tongue down Arthur’s chest until he fell to his knees, licking a quick circle around his lips before swallowing Arthur’s twitching length.

That had been the worst morning Arthur had ever had, worse even than when sexuality was first awakened, his every thought revolving around girls and bringing him to attention. On those occasions, he had at least been able to relieve himself, but Merlin had already been there, bustling around outside the curtain, and maybe Arthur had been a little snappier than usual, and had probably deserved the array of less-than-charitable nicknames Merlin concocted for him throughout the day, but he couldn’t help but be bitter, especially with Merlin and his damn  _lips_  around all day. It was enough to drive anyone mad, but last night… He would have to flee the country; he could never see Merlin  _again_!

He sighed, pulling his arm away from his eyes, but he did not open them. It was quiet in the room, Merlin mercifully not there yet, so Arthur allowed himself an ill-advised moment to reflect, the effect being a twitch of his groin and a bitten-off whimper.

It probably didn’t help that the latest dream had been in this very bed, and had started rather similar to this. Arthur had woken up, and Merlin had been there, sleeping on his side and turned away. Arthur had snaked an arm beneath the blankets, wrapping it around the brunette’s waist, and, apparently, it wasn’t supposed to alarm him that they were both naked. He tucked himself in behind Merlin, lips tasting down his shoulder, up his neck, until Merlin had started squirming against him, making small soft noises. Eventually, he had turned, flipping around to attack Arthur’s mouth, and Arthur had shifted, moving up over the manservant, and Merlin, in a gesture that must have been familiar, opened his legs so Arthur could rest his between them.

The dream didn’t keep very good track of it, but there were hands everywhere, mouths everywhere, and a continuous blend of gasps and moans that were impossible to distinguish the owner of. Eventually, however, things had slowed down, Arthur hooking two fingers into Merlin’s mouth.

In spite of never having done it before, Arthur wasn’t ignorant to how sex worked between two men. He had been on too many battlefields for ignorance, so it wasn’t that surprising that the dream version of himself had acted accordingly.

Merlin had wet his fingers, blacked-out eyes looking up at Arthur through dazed, narrow slits, and then Arthur had reached down between them, kissing Merlin through a moan as he traced his finger around the opening. He knew it had been slow, but the dream sped things up a bit, and Arthur quickly had three fingers in Merlin, twisting and curling as the pale man twitched and panted below him. He remembered Merlin had begged, and, even now that he was awake, that sent a wave of heat over his whole body, and he bit his lip to keep from gasping at the agony of his stiff cock brushing against the sheets from where it protruded from his nightshirt. From there, everything was a bit of a blur, the exact motions blending together, but he remembered the way it felt, the sounds Merlin made, the way he saw fingers dig into skin even though he couldn’t feel the pain, and he would forever remember the way Merlin had thrown his head back when he came, Arthur leaning down to bite a mark over his collarbone.

Fed up with everything and everyone, but especially Merlin and his damn  _everything_ , Arthur reached down the blankets, barely managing to restrain his groan to something that wouldn’t wake up the entire castle as he took himself in hand.

It was that damn sword-fight that had started it. He should have listened when Merlin said it was a bad idea, although he doubted the manservant had meant it like  _this_ , but now Arthur couldn’t stop thinking about him! He couldn’t stop replaying the sweat streaking down his neck, or the heaves of his breath, and he wanted to see it all again, wanted to taste the salt of his perspiration and gasp back into his mouth, and it was somehow all Merlin’s fault, he was sure of it. Merlin and his damn eyes and hair and lips and fingers, god, even his  _ears_  were growing on Arthur! It was unacceptable, clearly, but, until he could find a remedy, maybe try another tonic from Gaius, this was the only relief he could get.

He let his neck relax back into the pillow with a sigh, the tension leaving his muscles as he slowly worked his hand up and down. On some of the downstrokes, he dipped lower, pressing a stripe down between his testicles, and he allowed himself to think about his second dream, about Merlin doing this instead of him. Did Merlin ever do this to himself? Arthur actually thrust off the bed at the thought. Did he think of Arthur the same way Arthur thought of him now? Did he moan those shattering sounds the way Arthur had dreamt them, or were they even better, even louder grating out of that long pale throat?

Arthur gasped, eyes squinted shut as he imagined Merlin’s fingers on himself, imagined Merlin’s cock, probably just as long and thin as the rest of him, flushed a bit pink as the man worked his hand over it. Would he moan Arthur’s name?

“Fuck,” Arthur hissed, that thought far too close to too much, and he was in danger of finishing before he’d really gotten started. He wasn’t intending to make this a regular thing, wasn’t intending to do it ever again if he could help it, so this once had to last, had to be worthwhile. He let his mind drift around, recalling the most recent scene, and his hand tightened on his cock as he tried to stave off his release at the thought of what it would feel like, buried to the hilt inside Merlin, the heat of his body stretching into Arthur’s as the man’s nails dug painful patterns into his skin.

He gave up, pumping hard, letting his breaths out loose and ragged. “Merlin,” he gasped, not entirely consciously. “Fuck, Merlin!” With a cry muffled by his probably-now-bleeding lip, he came, the image of Merlin throwing his head back when he did the same the last coherent picture in his mind. He thought it would never end, the heat shaking through him until it turned to shivering, and he wasn’t sure he would ever breathe properly again. With effort, his every muscle twitching with aftershocks, he removed his hand, wiping it on the sheet beside his hip. Slowly, he tried to force his breathing to normal, the cloud dissolving from his mind, and that was when the worst thing in the history of history happened.

“Arthur?”

He ripped his hands up from under the blankets, having only time to check that they were clean before Merlin was peeling back the curtain beside him.

He tilted his head, staring curiously down at Arthur, and Arthur shouted furiously at himself to under no circumstances look down at his lips. “Are you alright?” he asked, shifting closer, his thighs bumping against the edge of the bed.

“Of course,” Arthur replied, and then winced, ashamed of the squeak in his voice.

Merlin didn’t appear suspicious, at least, only concerned, but it hardly mattered which one it was when the result was that he leaned down closer. “You were calling for me,” he said, looking over Arthur’s face.

If Arthur wasn’t red before, he definitely was now. “I-I was?” he murmured.

Merlin nodded. “Are you sure you’re alright?” he asked again, and then, horrifically, placed a soft hand to Arthur’s forehead. “You look a bit ill.”

Arthur laughed, a sharp, shrill burst.

Merlin pulled his hand back, looking at him like he was insane, and Arthur wasn’t sure he would even argue anymore. “I’m gonna get Gaius,” he said, eyeing Arthur warily.

Arthur wasn’t sure if he was going to throw up or faint, but, either way, it would probably help his case. “No, I-I’m fine,” he managed, clearing his throat as he tried to add more authority.

Merlin shook his head, and Arthur hated him a little bit, picking today of all days to start doing his job. “You have a fever. You’re all red.”

Arthur could feel that situation only getting worse, a heat rushing up his cheeks. “It-It’s just a bit warm in here, is all. I probably just need to sleep with less blankets.”

“You could’ve told me,” Merlin said, looking strangely hurt.

“I- This is the first time I’ve noticed,” Arthur assured, nodding to strengthen the lie.

Merlin still looked conflicted, brow furrowing as he looked between Arthur’s eyes, a clear physician’s scan. “Are you  _sure_  you’re alright?” he asked finally, and Arthur nodded.

“Positive,” he chirped, rustling up a smile. “Now, where’s breakfast?”

Merlin scoffed, rolling his eyes. “Yeah, you’re just fine,” he muttered, and then, mercifully, disappeared, plates clattering on the table behind the curtains on the opposite side.

Arthur delivered his sheets to the laundry personally that day, startling a handmaiden he nearly knocked over in his haste to get away, face still burning red.

\---

Merlin stayed out of trouble for six whole days. He kept his head down, avoiding the palls of silence in the streets that meant Aredian was walking through, ignoring the angry mutterings in the tavern from those who had had their homes ransacked or stalls stolen from—or that’s how they saw it, at least, Aredian demanding everything from apples to silks in the name of ‘the cause’. He had kept his promise, bit his tongue, and then, just a few hours shy of an entire week of propriety, circumstance conspired against him.

He had been walking through the market making the morning rounds with Gaius’ tonics, Will having been sent off with the other half—which was actually closer to a quarter, but he didn’t need to know that—when there was a shout from up ahead.

“Idiot!” the now familiar voice of Aredian barked, and Merlin began weaving his way through the stalls and bustling people, most of them maneuvering quickly away. “Watch where you’re going, boy!”

“S-Sorry, sir,” a soft voice replied, and Merlin shot through the thin ring of spectators to find Will sprawled across the ground, gently picking up the few bottles that had spilled from his basket.

“You should be,” Aredian snarled, glaring down at him. “Useless  _peasant_ ,” he spat, stepping forward, and that’s when Merlin undid all his good work.

“Hey!” he shouted, stepping up past William, blocking Aredian’s path. “Leave him alone. It was an accident.”

Aredian gaped at him for a moment, then closed his mouth, eyes narrowing as he huffed a disgruntled sniff through his nose. “Look,  _boy_ ,” he sneered, leaning so close, Merlin could smell his putrid breath, his voice low, just between the two of them, “I know who you are. The prince’s little  _pet_.”

Merlin flinched, the man’s spittle spraying hot over his cheek.

“But don’t think that makes any difference to me. Now get out of my way, or I’ll have you thrown in the stocks.”

Merlin, in spite of all logic, snorted derisively. “I’m pretty sure you don’t have the authority to do that,” he remarked coldly, and Aredian’s eyes blazed.

“Why you insolent little-“ He swept his hand up in a swift motion, and Merlin was going to block the  blow, mind already planning a precise strategy, but a shout from his right halted the scene.

“What’s going on here?” Arthur bellowed, the crowd parting for him. He met Merlin’s eyes for a second, the paler ones twitching narrower slightly as he looked over Merlin’s face, an unspoken inquiry.

Merlin dipped his eyes more than his head, a small nod of assurance, and then Arthur’s eyes shifted down to William, widening sharply.

“Will?” he blurted, steps quickening. “Are you alright?”

William nodded up at him, eyes downturned. “Yes, Sire,” he mumbled, and Arthur, after a scan of the boy, turned fiercely to Aredian.

“What are you doing out here, Aredian?” he snapped.

The witch hunter’s lips twitched in disgust, but he did not speak out, leaning back and retreating slightly from Merlin as Arthur drew to his side. “I was scouting the lower town for signs of witchcraft, Your Highness,” he said, sinisterly polite as he inclined his head in a quick bow.

“It was my understanding you did that yesterday,” Arthur remarked, and Aredian’s jaw stiffened.

Eventually, he twisted his face into a stiff smile. “One can never be too diligent in policing practitioners of magic, my lord.”

“No,” Arthur said snidely, “nor, it would seem, those who hunt them.”

Aredian’s smile gave up entirely, and he glared between Merlin and Arthur. “I am trying to do my  _job,_ ” the man spat. “The job  _the king_  has paid me to do, and this  _boy_ ”—he waved a hand over Merlin—“is interfering with my efforts to secure Camelot from sorcery.”

Arthur barked a sarcastic laugh. “I would wonder then, Aredian, how effective your methods can truly be if they are so easily foiled by a servant.”

Merlin snorting, covering it not-quite-quick-enough with a cough, and Aredian turned his furious glare at him before returning it to Arthur.

“Your father-”

“Is not here,” Arthur interjected sternly, lifting his chin. “But, being that I am the  _crown prince,_ ” he stressed, “I believe my orders are to be followed in his stead. Would you not agree?” He tilted his head, a coy threat, and Aredian said nothing. “You’ve looked through the lower town enough today,” Arthur continued, Aredian’s eye actually twitching. “I suggest you continue your search elsewhere. And I would  hope not to hear about any further altercations between you and my staff.”

Aredian’s hand twitched, and, for a terrifying moment, Merlin thought he was going to reach for the knife strapped at his side, but he seemed to calm at least enough to refrain from that. “Of course, Sire,” he grit out, bowing his head again, and then stormed past them with a parting glare encompassing the trio.

Merlin watched after him for a moment, but Arthur’s eyes seemed to be stuck, his expression stone as he followed the man’s retreat. Merlin looked at the side of his face, at the sharp angles and firm lines, but knew better than to redirect that current state of mind. Instead, he turned to Will. “Are you alright?” he asked, kneeling down to the dirt in front of the boy.

His composure appeared to finally be cracking, his breaths quick as he nodded a little too earnestly. “I’m-I’m fine.”

“Did he hurt you?” Merlin asked, and William shook his head.

“I-I was just walking and…and he ran into me.” He looked across the ground, reaching toward the last vial with shaking hands.

“It’s alright, Will,” Merlin assured softly, and the boy turned desperate eyes to him. “You didn’t do anything wrong. Are you sure you’re alright though? No cuts? Bruises? Does anything hurt?”

“I-I don’t- No,” Will stammered, shaking his head as he pulled himself to sitting straight. “No, I-I just fell. Merlin?” he breathed, lifting his face earnestly. “I never finished my deliveries! And Mrs. Hanson likes to take hers with breakfast!”

Merlin stared at him for a second, and then laughed, shaking his head down at the ground. “Alright,” he said, standing up and lowering a hand to pull William up beside him. “Go finish your deliveries then. And don’t forget you have classes with Morgana after. She might not yell at you, but  _I_  get an earful!”

William chuckled, picking up his basket. “I won’t, Merlin, I promise,” he replied, and then looked more shyly up at Arthur, who was still looking away. “Are we training later, my lord?” he asked, and Arthur startled, looking down to him.

“Oh, um, no, Will,” he muttered, clearing his throat as he shook his head. “You just…focus on your studies for today.”

William looked a little disappointed, but covered it well enough, bowing his head. “Thank you, Sire. Bye, Merlin,” he bade, waving as he darted away with his basket.

Merlin watched him, shaking his head as he smiled. At his side, he heard Arthur shift in the dirt.

“Aredian won’t let that go, you know,” he said softly, and Merlin’s smile fell.

“I know,” he answered, turning to the prince, who was steadily returning the gaze. Merlin smiled weakly, and that Arthur didn’t return, so Merlin let it drop, reaching down to swipe the keys out of Arthur’s belt.

“What are you-” Arthur spluttered, following after him as Merlin charged away.

“Aredian’s just going to run to your father,” Merlin explained, leading the blond through the crowd, “and it’ll be so much worse coming from him.”

“Worse? What will be worse? What are you-” His words trailed off as Merlin stopped, turning half back. Arthur slowly shook his head. “No, Merlin, I- There’s no need.”

Merlin sighed, walking back from where he had stopped beside the base of the stocks. “Arthur, please,” he said, and Arthur snapped his eyes to him, desperate. “You know it’s gonna happen. It’s this or lashes, and, if I got to pick…” He trailed away, shifting his hands in the air to weigh the options, and then swinging back toward the stocks.

Arthur’s mouth moved, but no words came out, his eyes shifting between Merlin and the wood.

“Arthur,” Merlin said again, pushing all the pleading he could into the word.

Arthur closed his eyes against Merlin’s face, turning his head, his hands planting on his hips as he sighed. Finally, he lifted his head, looking past Merlin as he extended a hand.

Smiling—something he didn’t often do going into the stocks—he passed Arthur the keys, the prince shaking his head exasperatedly as he followed Merlin up to the platform.

“I still don’t like this,” he muttered, and Merlin chuckled up at him as he lowered himself into the slots.

“Yes, you’ve made that very clear,” he replied, flicking a hand to beckon Arthur to close the gate.

Arthur hesitated before huffing bitterly, crossing in front of Merlin to lift the wooden slat. He began lowering it, and then paused, brow furrowing.

Merlin was about to roll his eyes and mutter a snide remark, but the insult caught in his throat with a startled gasp as he felt Arthur’s fingers at his neck. He looked up to find Arthur perhaps a little pinker than he had been a moment ago, and stared dumbly up at him as tan fingers adjusted his neckerchief, completely surrounding his neck as a barrier against the grating wood.

“Sorry,” Arthur mumbled, his finger grazing a small distance up Merlin’s jaw as he pulled away, and Merlin’s entire body washed hot and cold at the contact.

Arthur was still looking down at him, however, so he cleared his throat to reply. “’S fine,” he murmured, voice wrecked in a way he hoped he could explain away by the pressure on his neck, and, as Arthur smiled softly and moved away, Merlin dropped his eyes to the ground, drawing up the ugliest thoughts he could imagine.

Merlin had noticed Arthur looking at him a little differently ever since their sparring session, something he had attributed to grudging respect, but, more and more as the days went by, he was growing less sure. The small touches, brighter smiles, and the ridiculous  _blushing_  that was going to cause permanent damage to Merlin’s heart were difficult enough, but his reactions to them were so much worse. Which was how he now found himself recalling the boil he had had to help Gaius let the fluid out of last week so he didn’t get an erection in front of the entire lower town.

“Merlin?”

He startled, twisting his head up to look at the curious prince. “Hmm?”

Arthur smiled amusedly. “I was saying I’ll be back in half an hour,” he evidently repeated.

“Oh,” Merlin muttered, nodding as best he could as he swallowed. “Right. Er, thank you.”

Arthur shook his head as he chuckled. “You’re welcome, I suppose,” he said, and then just looked at him, that weird feeling prickling at the top of his spine that made him wish desperately that he could read minds. Arthur coughed, ducking his head for a moment. “Well…good luck,” he clipped, and then turned away, his footsteps rattling the wood beneath Merlin’s feet as he left.

Merlin let out a breath, finding so much more air in Arthur’s absence, and then looked up at the gathering crowd. “Ed!” he called, breaking into a wide grin. “Back again?”

The answer was the resounding slap of a lettuce leaf to his cheek.

\---

Arthur had no idea what he was doing here, but he resented it already. That was largely because he suspected that, whatever it was, it had to do with Aredian. Their altercation had only been the day before, and the man had been none too subtle about holding a grudge, the threat clear in his eyes when he had stormed off. Of course, why that threat had to come calling before the  _sun_  did, Arthur didn’t know, but he was here, roused from his bed by a half-asleep Merlin, who kept leaning against him worryingly heavily as he wavered in and out of consciousness while they waited in the throne room.

“Merlin!” he hissed, shifting the shoulder the servant was pressed against.

Merlin sucked in air, straightening again as he blinked. “Wha-wha-wha?” he mumbled blearily, and Arthur rolled his eyes.

“You’re going to fall over,” Arthur snapped, and Merlin covered over a wide yawn.

“’M not,” the servant murmured back, but the rubbing at his eyes dampened the assurance.

Arthur shook his head, cursing himself for ever taking on the brunette burden, but then Merlin started leaning back into him again, and he found he didn’t quite mind so much.

They both jumped when the door flung open, however, Aredian sweeping in with a rush of black cloth.

“Your Majesty!” he called, breathless with dramatics.

Arthur lolled his head toward Merlin’s the find the man already looking at him, his disdain undoubtedly a mirror of Arthur’s. Of course, the fact that they were both doing it made it hilarious, and they quickly flicked their eyes apart, Arthur needing to suck his lips tightly over his teeth to keep from smiling, elbowing Merlin lightly when the servant began to quiver against his arm with repressed laughter.

“What is the meaning of this, Aredian?” Uther snapped, and Arthur had to duck his head to hide that smile. Perhaps Aredian ought to have done his research; Uther was extremely uncharitable when awoken earlier than nature intended.

Aredian bowed low, his sycophantic face nearly kissing the floor. “My most humble apologies, Your Majesty, but what I have discovered simply could not wait. Believe me, I would not have disturbed you were the threat not imminent.”

Arthur nearly groaned as Uther leaned forward eagerly over his knees. Mention imminent threats—or any excuse for immediate violence, really—and his father couldn’t help but be intrigued. Arthur still just wanted to sleep.

“What is it?” the king demanded earnestly. “What have you discovered?”

Aredian shook his head gravely down at the ground, a clear pantomime of hesitation. “Forgive me, my lord, the news is most unpleasant. I-I am loathed to be the one to bring such bad tidings. I’m afraid”—he paused, lifting his head to cast a theatrical eye over the assembly—“there is a traitor in our midst.”

“Oh my god,” Merlin groaned, disgust evident in his quiet voice in Arthur’s ear, but the rest of the room erupted into whispers.

Arthur turned to his left, looking across Merlin to where Gwen and Morgana were standing nearby, expecting to share an eye roll with his surrogate sister, but Morgana was watching with rapt attention, eyes wide and face paling. Arthur tilted his head, turning to Merlin to ask if he had any idea what was wrong with her, but his attention was drawn back by Aredian’s continued monologue.

“Magic,” he announced, turning now to address the anxiously muttering crowd, “has been operating within these walls, lying undetected, waiting for its chance to strike.”

A ripple of horror ran through the crowd, and, as Merlin stood up straighter, Arthur felt the shift too, the humor of the situation diminishing rapidly as the very real danger became apparent.

“Magic?” Uther whispered, blanching. “Have you found the source?” he demanded, rising furiously from his throne.

Aredian bowed his head. “I have, Your Majesty.”

“Well, who is it?!” Uther roared, charging a few steps toward him. “Speak, man! Tell us, where is the sorcerer!?”

Aredian looked up, his eyes shifting side-to-side, and cold dread began to creep up Arthur’s spine. “My lord, I fear the traitor is in this very room.”

Gasps, widening eyes, and everyone clamoring to get their own range of personal space broke out around the hall, but Arthur didn’t so much as twitch.

“Merlin,” he said out of the corner of his mouth, a premonition, a warning, but Merlin did not move, steadfast as ever at his side.

“Here!?” Uther bellowed, hand moving to his sword. “Who? Who is it?!”

Aredian bowed his head with a heavy sigh, swallowing as he lifted his face, as if it was true torture and not his profound pleasure to make such a reveal. “I’m afraid, my lord,” he said, soft now in the silent hall, “my evidence points to only one culprit.” In slow motion, his eyes shifted, locking with Arthur’s as he nodded toward him. “The boy,” he said flatly. “Merlin.”

Another rush of gasps, but, this time, it was blended with shouts of outrage.

Merlin staggered back a step. “Me?” he breathed, and the terror of it pushed Arthur into action.

“Merlin!?” he sputtered, half laughing even though he felt nowhere near amused. “That’s absurd! What proof do you have?”

Uther, however, was no longer listening. “Seize him!” he shouted, pointing wildly at Merlin, eyes wide with furious fear.

“What- Father, no!” Arthur shouted, shifting himself between Merlin and the approaching knights. “This is madness! Merlin isn’t a  _sorcerer_! Why would anyone capable of  _magic_  polish  _boots_  for a living?”

“Arthur!” Uther raged, glaring fire at him while he waved a hand. “Get out of the way!”

“No!” Arthur bellowed back, the volume of the room dropping around his voice. “Father, think about what you’re doing! This is  _Merlin_ , for chrissakes; he saved my  _life_!”

“Yes,” Uther agreed softly, nodding a little madly as he took a staggered step forward. “Yes, that was rather convenient, wasn’t it? He appears the very  _day_  there’s an attempt on your life, and just  _happens_  to be able to stop it?”

“There are always attempts on my life!” Arthur defended, backing up closer to Merlin as the circle of red capes closed in, his own knights—he was relieved to see—not among them. “That doesn’t mean anything! What about Valiant? Merlin almost  _died_!”

“But he didn’t!” Uther spouted, eyes mad in their focus over Arthur’s shoulder, and Arthur realized he was far beyond the point of reason.

He moved a hand to the hilt of his sword, his mind leaping ahead. There was no time to get anything, but they could get to the stables. His horse was the fastest, and he didn’t think Leon would mind Merlin taking his, the second in the speed. Arthur had enough on him even now that would be tradable—chainmail, rings, and even some of his smaller knives if he had to. They could get away, get out of Camelot, find a remote village somewhere where no one would ask questions about two travelers deciding to stay.

Gently, fingers lay over his where they gripped white-knuckled on his sword.

“Arthur,” Merlin whispered, and Arthur turned to find an expression on the man’s face he couldn’t immediately identify. It wasn’t afraid, just sad, and, as he shook his head, collapsing Arthur’s plans with a look, Arthur realized what it was. Defeat.

His lips parted as he shook his head right back, refusing to accept this, not from Merlin, who was too stubborn for his own good on  _every other day_. “No,” he said, the volume for everyone, but the sentiment for Merlin, who tilted his head pleadingly before Arthur looked back toward his father and the knights. “No, you’re not taking him. I won’t let you.”

“Arthur!” Uther raged, red-faced as he stomped forward, but he froze as Arthur shifted his feet just slightly, but clearly preparing for a fight. Uther looked slowly up and down the length of him, expression growing more and more bewildered.

“Your Majesty,” Aredian interrupted meekly, and Arthur’s mind drifted to the small knife he still had in his belt, the knife he figured he could throw accurately enough to slice the man’s throat out. “If I may, I am not certain His Highness is entirely responsible for his current actions.”

Arthur’s brow furrowed in confusion, matching Uther’s, and then they both seemed to understand at the same time, but Arthur’s expression shifted to horror where Uther’s moved to fury.

“You,” the king hissed, turning back to Merlin, who, when Arthur chanced a glance back at him, looked honestly afraid for the very first time. “You bewitched him!”

“No,” Merlin stammered, shaking his head as he lifted a trembling hand in front of him, but he quickly jerked it back down as some of the more hysterical handmaidens shrieked in terror. “No, I-I didn’t- I’m not a sorcerer!”

“SEIZE HIM!” Uther shrieked, arm flapping haphazardly as he pointed, spit flying from his mouth.

“NO!” Arthur commanded, pushing Merlin behind him with one arm while the other pulled out his sword, brandishing it in front of him toward the hesitant knights.

“Arthur,” Merlin breathed, but it was pure terror now, and Arthur pushed into his waist harder in response, pulling him more tightly to his back.

“Father, be reasonable!” he attempted. “This is not  _right_! This is not the rule of law in Camelot!”

“I AM THE LAW OF CAMELOT!” Uther roared, and Arthur flinched back, pushing Merlin with him. There was a vein pulsing in his forehead, another down his neck, and, though Arthur had seen some truly horrible sides of his father, he no longer recognized the man at all. “Take them both!” Uther continued, flailing his arm out toward them. “The prince is to be confined to his chambers until the sorcerer is dead. Only then will the curse be lifted.”

“I’m not cursed!” Arthur countered, voice rising with desperation.

“It’s not your fault, son,” Uther said soothingly, the way Arthur had always wished to be comforted when he’d been thrown from his horse or struck in his training, but now his stomach rolled with nausea. “We’ll figure it out, don’t worry. We’ll save you.”

Arthur recoiled, face twisting with disgust as he looked at the sick, paranoid man who stood where his father had only minutes ago.

“Arthur!”

“Merlin!”

Arthur turned at Merlin’s call, but Morgana’s sent terror through him before he even registered what was going on.

The knights had, true to their training, taken advantage of his momentary distraction and snuck around behind, snatching Merlin out from behind him. The servant writhed in their arms, his own pinned behind his back, his face contorted in pain as they were viciously twisted.

“Let him go!” Morgana shouted, rushing the knights, tugging at their grip as she kicked violently at every bit of them she could, all dignity forgotten.

“Morgana, don’t!” Merlin cautioned, but the woman didn’t care, and, consequently, was pushed backward by a jolt of the knight’s arm.

She staggered back into Gwen, who was waiting there to catch her, and that was when all hell broke loose.

Arthur dove forward, a cry from behind him sounding the instant he raised his sword, and he came down hard on the arm of one of the knight’s, knowing his mail would prevent serious injury, but it would definitely bruise, and the blow was enough to dislodge his hold on Merlin, who still struggled within the other knight’s hold. Hands scrabbled at Arthur’s arms, trying to restrain him, but he heard his own knight’s coming up, as well as Gwaine’s profane shouts for some reason, and the hands slowly fell away from him. He rushed forward the instant he was free, charging through toward Merlin, who was being dragged away by a small assembly of knights now, and putting up an impressive fight against the onslaught.

“Let me  _go_!” he shrieked, the knights stumbling and buckling as he kicked with downright medical accuracy at the most painful places he could reach—generally groins and inner thighs. He got in a good elbow to one of their sides, temporarily breaking an arm free to give another a bloody nose, but he couldn’t manage to entirely escape, his feet grating across the floor as he tried to build traction the opposite direction.

Suddenly, one of Uther’s knights stepped forward, sword held aloft, and the entire world froze around that moment, Arthur watching as Merlin’s eyes locked on it, his entire face opening with terror, and Arthur wondered if it was possible to have someone else’s life flash before your eyes.

“Merlin!” The name ripped through his throat, and its owner turned to him, frantic blue eyes tinging with sorrow, and then, almost thankfully, the hilt of the sword came down into his dark hair, Merlin’s head bobbing with the blow before his body went limp. “MERLIN!” Arthur shouted, trying to push to him, but there were too many people now, too many hands providing too much force for him to pull away. He cried out in pain as his arm was twisted back, his legs kicked out as his knees came down hard on the stone floor. Still, he struggled, thrashing against the scrabbling fingers.

“ _MERLIN!_ ” he screamed, and his own voice was the last thing he heard before there was a blinding pain in his head, swiftly followed by darkness.

\---

The sun was up and high by the time Arthur awoke, groaning at the throbbing that immediately assailed his brain. He lay there, trying to think through the agony, and then the memory came back to him, all the air rushing from his lungs like a blow to the stomach.

“Merlin,” he breathed, scrabbling out of bed, his vision blurry from pain, but he struggled to the door, knocking over a chair or two along the way as he used them for support.

He flung open the door, and was promptly greeted by a pair of sword coming down in a cross, blocking his way. He blinked, disbelieving, and then turned to the culprits, who were avoiding his eyes. “Let me through,” he said coldly.

There was silence for a long moment, and then one of the men cleared his throat. “I’m sorry, my lord,” he said, gaze resolutely forward. “You are not permitted to leave, by order of the king.”

Arthur glared hard at the side of the man’s face, watching with grim satisfaction as he slowly grew more and more uncomfortable. “I am not your lord, sir knight,” he finally said, low and venomous, and the red-cloaked man twitched in a small flinch. “You are no man of mine.” Without waiting for a reply, Arthur backed away, moving into his room and closing the door.

He stood there just on the other side of the wood for a long time, breathing hard as he stared aimlessly down at the floor, blood pounding in his ears. He nearly leapt across the entire room when a knock sounded in front of him.

Tentatively, he shifted the lock, pulling the door open a crack. “You,” he breathed, throwing it open when he caught sight of the visitor, the knights mysteriously absent all of a sudden.

Aredian smiled, nothing left of the meek man who had spoken out before. “Your Highness,” he said, bow mocking, and his face lifted with a smirk. “May I come in?”

Arthur gripped the edge of the door, intending to very firmly, if briefly, decline, but Aredian pushed past him, taking him by surprise. “What the  _hell_  are you-”

“Relax, my lord,” Aredian interrupted, looking far too at ease for Arthur’s comfort, and he released the door, letting it drift closed while his hand moved toward the jug on the table, all his weapons removed from his person. Aredian’s eyes followed his fingers’ trajectory, but he only smiled more smugly. “This will really be so much easier if you don’t struggle.”

“What-” Arthur began, but then Aredian lifted a hand, a blue amulet glowing where he held it in his palm, and then there was nothing but screaming he thought might be his.

\---

Merlin sat on the floor of his cell, boots buried in the straw as he leaned against the wall. His head still throbbed distantly from the blow of the sword, and his entire body ached from the various twists and scrapes, but he was keeping the worst of the pain at bay, small bursts of healing magic preventing too severe swelling and bruising.

There was a shuffling of the guards around the corner, and Merlin leaned forward, straining his ears, but the man must have only shifted, the scrapes of tankards against stone sounding again a moment later.

With a soft sigh, he leaned his head back against the cold stone, settling back into waiting.

Arthur would want to come, Merlin believed that, but what if he couldn’t? What if he was also imprisoned somewhere within the castle? What if he was injured? If they thought that he truly had been bewitched by Merlin, if they thought he was dangerous… Well, Merlin didn’t know what line Uther wouldn’t cross.

He closed his eyes, tilting his head up toward the low ceiling.

It had been too good to hope for, he supposed, that he could make a life for himself in Camelot. This was the last place a sorcerer ought to be, especially with a witch hunter hanging around, but he had grown careless, gotten too involved, and had consequently ignored the common sense that would dictate he should have packed a bag and snuck away under cover of darkness as soon as Aredian came to town. But he couldn’t, hadn’t even considered it beyond a vague acknowledgement of the option, and now he was paying the price. He couldn’t stay here now, he knew that. Arthur would do something even if he himself could not come, Merlin was confident of that at least. He would send Lancelot or Morgana or Gaius or something to help him, to get him out of Camelot, but what would become of Arthur? Would he stay, knowing that he may never be king, the cloud of suspicion hanging over him for as long as Merlin lived? Surely…Surely Arthur wouldn’t sacrifice Merlin for his crown. Would he? Merlin shook his head, dismissing the thought. This was no time for doubt, and, besides, hadn’t Arthur proven himself enough by now?

Restless, Merlin rose, pacing side-to-side across his cell in the dark, the flickering torches beyond his cell the only light, no moon peeking out from behind the clouds to comfort him. Suddenly, heavy boots hit against the stone around the corner, and there was a general clamor of armor and mumbled voices. The voices were distinctly male, three of them in total, although one was much sterner than the others. Eventually, there was a jangle of keys, and a single set of footsteps walking down the corridor toward him. A silhouette rounded the corner, backlit by torchlight, and Merlin sighed with relief, diving to the bars.

“Arthur!” he breathed, not realizing how tense he had truly been until it left him, his muscles aching as they relaxed. “Thank god! For a minute there, I-” He stopped as Arthur’s face drew closer, illuminated by the torch bracketed to the wall outside his cell. His brow furrowed as he looked over the pale blue eyes, searching the cold distance of them, and then he stepped back, recoiling his hands from the iron.

Arthur’s face broke into a grin that wasn’t Arthur’s. “Oh, that’s very good,” he praised sarcastically, tilting his head, and a chill ran up Merlin’s spine at the voice—so familiar, and yet so clearly wrong. “All day and  _no one_ has noticed, and then you.” He shook his head wonderingly. “You figure it out with one look. That’s…Well, I’m not gonna lie, Merlin, I’m a little bit impressed.”

“Aredian,” Merlin hissed, and Arthur’s face sneered.

He waved his hands out as he quirked a small bow. “In the flesh!” he chirped. “Well,” he muttered, straightening up with a shrug, “in a manner of speaking.”

“Where’s Arthur?!” Merlin snarled, charging at the bars again, the metal ringing with the force of his hands as they wrapped around them. “What have you done with him?!”

“Nothing,” Aredian replied, blinking owlishly. “I haven’t done anything to him. But, to answer your first question, he’s right here.” He stepped back, waving a dramatic hand down Arthur’s body. “Well, more specifically”—he fished beneath Arthur’s tunic, pulling out a small blue amulet on a long chain—“he’s here. Or he would be if he just  _gave up_  already!”

Merlin startled at the unexpected snarl, shifting back in the straw, suddenly very grateful for the shield of metal his imprisonment provided. “What are you talking about?” he asked, looking down at the necklace, and then his eyes widened as he watched it spark with gold. “Magic,” he breathed, and Aredian smiled. “You’re using magic!”

Aredian shrugged. “A man’s gotta do and whatnot.”

Merlin glared at him, jaw setting as he clenched his hands into fists, not sure enough about the situation to risk tossing the figure in front of him through a wall. “What have you done to him?” he asked, and Aredian’s smile faded even as his eyes still glinted.

“Why don’t we talk about this inside, hmm?” he chirped, lifting his hand to reveal a small set of keys, which he jingled pointedly. He approached the door, the lock grating as he opened it, and then grinned up at Merlin as he stepped in. “There,” he said, closing the still unlocked door behind him, “isn’t that better?”

Merlin didn’t reply, eyes darting over the man’s shoulder to the door.

“I wouldn’t,” Aredian clipped with a smile that was probably supposed to be apologetic. “Doubt you’d get very far with those guards out there.”

He was right, but Merlin wasn’t going to let him be smug about it, and stiffened his spine, crossing his arms over his chest as he glared.

Aredian only smiled. “This,” he began, taking a single strolling step as he swung the amulet around on its chain, “is the Amulet of Feorhhord.” He flicked his eyebrows as he spun the stone through his fingers. “It enables the wielder to—for lack of a better word— _transplant_ himself into another person.”

Merlin looked from the stone to Arthur’s—Aredian’s, it was  _Aredian’s_ —face, brow furrowing.

Aredian’s lips twitched in faint amusement. “Essentially,” he began, letting the stone drop to his chest as he waved his arms out in an expansive gesture, “this stone holds Arthur’s spirit, if you will. His consciousness, everything that makes Arthur  _Arthur_. With the exception of his body, of course,” he added with a smirk. “The amulet then allows me”—he tapped a hand to his chest—“to replace him. My body, mind, everything is passed through this stone, converted so that I can take possession. At least, that’s what the witch  _told_  me would happen,” he muttered, scowling irritably down at the ground. “It appears she neglected to mention a few possible…difficulties.”

“What difficulties?” Merlin asked, trying to think through the horror as he swallowed against the bile that threatened to choke him.

Aredian lifted his head, tilting it as he smiled. “Sorry, boy,” he said, waggling a finger side-to-side, “but I’m not stupid. I’m not going to go giving you the keys to the kingdom.” He grinned, eyes sparkling with malice Arthur never could have mustered. “Those are mine now.”

“Is that what this is all about?” Merlin spat, pushing through his torment to anger. “You want Camelot? Why?”

Aredian blinked at him, an air of disbelief around his smile. “Why?” he parroted in a scoff. “Power, of course.” He chuckled, shaking his head as he sidled further along in an arc in front of Merlin. “I’ve already been to see Uther,” he explained, and the fine hair on the back of Merlin’s neck stood on end. “Arthur emerged from his chambers a changed man, free of your enchantment thanks to my efforts,” he continued, pressing a hand to his chest as he smirked. “ _I_ , of course, am quarantined to my chambers, deathly ill with a plague you cursed me with for revealing your secret. Terrible business, just terrible; no one is allowed in, lest they catch it as well.”

Merlin swallowed hard, and Aredian tracked it down his throat, smile twisting triumphantly.

“Arthur immediately went to Uther, of course, determined to join in the fight of purging Camelot of magic. Naturally, the king was thrilled,” Aredian added with a bob of his head toward Merlin, who might really throw up now.

“Someone will notice,” Merlin snarled, but his voice shook along with his clenched fists. “You won’t get away with it. Someone will figure it out.”

“Who?” Aredian laughed, spinning to Merlin as he opened his arms. “Who would dare speak up against the  _crown prince_  of Camelot?”

Merlin’s eyes narrowed, but Aredian only matched his glare with a continued smirk.

“The knights? Leon? Lancelot?” he drawled, ambling toward Merlin, who began retreating back toward the wall to match each forward step. “They wouldn’t dare. And that girl? Morgana?”

“Uther would  _never_ hurt Morgana,” Merlin hissed, holding his ground at that.

“Won’t he?” Aredian taunted. “Not even if his only son came to him, terribly distraught, but concerned for the safety of his father? Of the kingdom? If he—reluctantly, of course—had to tell the king that he had seen the Lady Morgana practicing magic, plotting to kill him in revenge for sending her father to his death in battle?”

Merlin felt his lip tremble in spite of himself, his heart pounding through his entire body, because he knew what Uther would think, what he would do, and the worst part was, with Morgana, there may actually be evidence to find.

Aredian seemed to notice his hesitation, and grinned as he stalked closer. “Face it, Merlin,” he sighed with faux contrition. “You lost. You and Arthur both.”

Merlin’s back hit the wall, his retreat now out of room, but he held Aredian’s gaze with a glare, refusing to give up that last point of pride. “Someone will figure it out,” he assured, voice dropping with low threat as Aredian pressed far too close into his face. “It doesn’t matter what skin you wear, you’ll always be a _snake_ underneath.”

Arthur’s eyes flashed with Aredian’s hatred, and then Merlin’s head smacked back hard against the wall, a firm hand clasping around his throat.

He kicked out, clawing at the man’s hand where it clenched around his windpipe, but his natural impulse to fight was tempered by the fact that it was still  _Arthur_ , if only in body.

“Then again,” Aredian growled, breath hot and damp as it passed over Merlin’s face, his eyes too close to even focus on properly, “why wait for the execution? I could end you, right here and now. Say you attacked me.” He squeezed a little tighter, and Merlin squeaked, feeling his throat might crack under the strain. “I was only defending myself. No one could fault me for that.”

Merlin scrabbled at the tan arm, scraping and pushing as he tried in vain to pry the fingers from his neck. All this time, all the scuffles and slaps and practice sessions, and he had never realized just how strong Arthur was, just how careful he must have been. There was no doubt now, however, and Merlin’s eyes began to burn as he felt his limbs growing heavy and uncoordinated. He stretched his jaw wide, reaching for breath, but there was none to be found, the pressure on his larynx too great, and his fingers were more resting on Arthur’s wrist that struggling with it now. Spots started to appear in his vision, and he blinked, trying to focus on Arthur’s face, because, if he was going to die here, that might as well be the last thing he saw.

The pale blue eyes were not Arthur’s, not quite, but Merlin could imagine, could remember back to when the features weren’t twisted with fury, and that would have to be enough. Deadweight now, his hand fell away, legs growing wobbly beneath him as he looked between the sharp blue orbs, and then, just briefly, something changed within their depths.

A spasm of eyelids, a slight twitch of a lip, and, as the pressure on his throat slackened, the malicious fire was tempered with something familiar, something pained.

“Arthur?” Merlin managed to wheeze, the name barely intelligible, but he was sure of it then, the hand falling away from his neck entirely as Arthur,  _real_  Arthur, staggered back, trembling all over. Merlin steadied himself against the wall, gasping around coughs as he rubbed a hand over his throat.

Arthur gasped with pain, though nothing seemed to have happened, bending over as a hand came up to his head, covering his eyes and pressing into his forehead. The shift was obvious, small cues of body language Merlin had never noticed until they were juxtaposed like this, and the man in front of him was Aredian once more, panting at the ground as he dropped his hand, blinking furiously.

“Arthur’s not gone,” Merlin said, absolutely certain, even if his voice still rasped horribly over the assertion.

Aredian whipped up to him, teeth clenching as they bared in a small snarl, but Merlin stood tall, no longer afraid.

“That’s what you meant, isn’t it? About the difficulties?” he continued, lowering his hand from his sternum to rest easily at his side.

“It doesn’t matter!” Aredian spat, Arthur’s face twisted into that of a madman. “The amulet will drain him eventually. He’s growing weaker by the  _second_! It’s only a matter of time.”

A corner of Merlin’s mouth twitched in a smirk. “He doesn’t look all that weak to me.”

Aredian’s jaw clenched, eyes narrowing until they were only slits. He started to take a step forward, and then seemed to think better of it, shifting his weight back as he clenched a hand. Slowly, his lips curled into a tight twist. “Yes, well,” he mocked, taking a small step backward toward the door, “we’ll see how much fight he has left after he watches himself light the pyre tomorrow.” He smiled smugly, and Merlin repressed a shudder to glare. Aredian then turned away, opening the door to leave, but paused just before closing it, spinning Arthur’s body back around. “Oh, and Merlin?”

Merlin didn’t move, but Aredian seemed to take something as an invitation to continue.

“I wouldn’t try anything, if I were you,” he crooned, smile bone-chillingly sinister. “Otherwise, I might be obliged to slit my own throat.”

Merlin’s stomach plummeted so far, it must have settled somewhere in the caverns, his eyes popping as his breath stalled in his lungs.

Aredian only smirked, turning away in a flash of red as he disappeared around the corner.

Merlin’s knees rattled, and he reached out to the wall behind him with trembling fingers, slowly guiding his progress down until he collapsed to the floor in a tangle of limbs. He would not cry, would not allow anyone that satisfaction, even if there was no one there to see, and instead simply shook, shivering with cold and horror as the night crept on.

He could still leave, of course. Even if no one was coming to save him, he could escape. But then Arthur would die, one way or another, either by the amulet or Aredian’s hand. But, if Aredian was willing to kill Arthur…surely he himself could escape somehow. He wouldn’t sacrifice himself—cowards never did—so there must be a way to remove him from Arthur, a way to separate them so he could kill Arthur without killing himself. Merlin just had to figure out what it was before dawn. Not a tall order at all.

Closing his eyes, he summoned Archimedes with a thought carried on a burst of magic, and waited for the bird to alight on the ledge of the high window above him.

The owl let out a concerned hoot, shuffling through the opening to flutter down to Merlin’s side, his wings flexing anxiously in the straw.

“I’m fine, Archie,” he assured, smiling tiredly, “and I think I have an idea. I need you to take a message to Gaius, alright?”

The owl as close to nodded as an owl could do, and Merlin conjured up a piece of parchment, waving his hand over it to print words.

“Make sure you give it to him when he’s alone,” Merlin advised, rolling the miniscule scroll up and holding it out, Archimedes clipping it lightly within his beak. “And don’t let anyone see you. Alright?”

Archimedes let out a muffled hoot around the paper, and then, in a rare gesture of affection from the owl Merlin often considered even more snobbish than Arthur, he lowered his head, resting the crown softly against Merlin’s leg.

Merlin was nearly overcome then, a rush of every emotion he had repressed so neatly for hours rising up in a torrent from his chest, but he dammed his throat, holding it at bay. Still, his eyes were a bit dewy as he smiled down at the bird, stroking down his back. “Thank you, Archie,” he choked, and the bird lifted his head, fixing Merlin with a look he could only interpret as determined before pushing off in a flutter of feathers and straw, landing on the ledge for a mere moment before bursting out into the night.

After that, Merlin could only wait. He curled up this way and that, trying the straw first, then the small bed in the corner, but sleep would not come. Finally, after having lost all sense of time and being absolutely certain the sun was going to break over the horizon any second, there were soft footsteps outside his cell. Looking up, he saw three figures entering the torchlight, walking closely together as they moved nearly soundlessly across the stone.

“How did you get past the guards?” Merlin whispered, springing up from his cot.

“Sleeping tonic in their mead,” Morgana answered, coming to meet him at the bars, Lancelot squeezing in beside her as Gaius unlocked the door. “Are you alright? Your head- God, Merlin, what happened to your neck!?”

“What? Oh,” Merlin mumbled, fingers grazing over where he had forgotten there would probably be bruising, his shock and cold likely holding off most of the pain. “I- It’s kind of a long story.”

“Well, speak quickly,” Gaius snipped, swinging the door open and rushing to Merlin’s side, Morgana and Lancelot directly behind him. “We haven’t much time.”

Merlin explained as quick as he could, pausing here and there to clear his throat or take a drink from the water skin Lancelot had brought him. The reactions varied as he told the story, Lancelot consistently wide-eyed, Gaius sitting in thoughtful silence, and Morgana periodically gasping in horror.

“My god, Merlin,” she breathed as he concluded up until Aredian had left. “Why didn’t you stop him? I mean, you could’ve easily-” She paused, freezing, her face drained entirely of blood in the blink of an eye.

“It’s alright,” Merlin muttered, rattling his head. “Everyone here knows I have magic.”

Three loud shushes filled the room, and then his visitors all turned to one another, confused.

“We-” Morgana said at the same moment Gaius and Lancelot began with a “You-”.

Merlin answered all the unspoken questions with a nod. “You all know I’m a sorcerer. You’re the only ones who do, mind you,” he added, a likely unnecessary reminder.

Although the trio still looked shocked, they recovered quickly, Lancelot being the fastest.

“But, Merlin,” he said, brow furrowing in pleading as he looked down, “you can’t  _stay_  here. You’ll die!”

“I can’t leave,” Merlin countered earnestly, three faces looking back at him like he was mad. “Weren’t you listening? Aredian will kill Arthur if I leave.”

“You mean if you don’t die,” Morgana supplied sharply.

Merlin didn’t even hesitate. He nodded. “If it comes to that, yes,” he replied, and mouths dropped.

“Merlin,” Morgana said softly, expression turning sympathetic as she stretching a hand out to his knee from where she sat beside him. “I-I know you want to help Arthur. We all do,” she added, looking around the include Lancelot and Gaius, who nodded their agreement. “But- Well, surely you-you have to see- Merlin-”

“No,” Merlin snapped, pushing up from the cot, moving past Lancelot before he turned fiercely back on the trio. “No, you weren’t there. You didn’t see.”

Morgana hung her head. “Merlin-” she pleaded, but he interrupted her again.

“No!” he exclaimed, looking between the faces of three people who seemed to have already given up. “No, I’m not running away! I’m not letting him die!”

“Merlin,” Lancelot tried, a little more forceful, enough to keep Merlin quiet for the moment, “if what Aredian says is true… Arthur wouldn’t want this, Merlin,” he said softly, and Merlin turned his head, throat burning. “You know that. He wouldn’t want you to risk your life on the small chance that-”

“That what?” Merlin snarled, eyes blinking against the rising moisture. “That I can save him? That he lives?”

“Yes,” Gaius said, soft but firm, and Merlin looked to him, that betrayal cutting deeper than all the others. Slowly, the old man rose, expression just as pained as Merlin imagined his was, but the man’s eyes remained stern. “Merlin, no one,  _no one_ could regret this more than us,” he continued, stepping forward as Merlin blinked at the wall, “but…but it has come down to a choice. A terrible choice, yes, but a choice nonetheless. You and Arthur cannot both survive this, you know that.”

“But if I can figure out how the amulet works-” he bleated, but was interrupted by Morgana launching up from the bed.

“When?” she asked, her voice angry, but her eyes shone with tears. “On the walk from here to the pyre? Merlin, there isn’t  _time_! And, even if there was, we have no idea where to start!”

“The-The library,” Merlin stammered, looking frantically between them for support. “Maybe-Maybe there’s a book on…on magical artifacts or something. Or-Or Gaius! You have books—all kinds of books—surely there’s something in them!”

Gaius looked at him, heartbreak leaking from every crease of his face. “Merlin, I-I’m sorry,” he breathed, shaking his head, “but I have never come across any mention of the amulet, and, if it is as powerful as you described, I’m afraid…” He paused, dropping his eyes to the ground for a moment as he swallowed. Steadily, he looked back up, and Merlin’s entire chest cavity hollowed out. “I’m afraid Arthur may already be lost.”

“No,” Merlin wavered, shaking his head as he retreated a staggered step. “No, you- You’re wrong. He- I saw him!” he urged, but only sad resignation looked back at him. “He’s in there, I know it!”

“Maybe,” Lancelot allowed gently, moving warily toward Merlin with slow motions, “but we don’t know how to help him. And we don’t have time to figure it out.”

Merlin continued shaking his head, a weak shield of denial Lancelot broke right through to place a hand on his shoulder.

“But we can save  _you_ , Merlin,” he continued as Merlin pressed his eyelids tight. “We can get you out of Camelot, get you away from here. The three of us will find a way to stop Aredian; we’ll figure out the amulet.”

“No!” Merlin argued, weaving out from under the man’s gentle grip. “No, it’ll be too late by then! Aredian said he’d kill him! If I’m not here tomorrow, Arthur- Arthur-” The words fell apart, and he dragged in a trembling breath, eyes unfocused down at the straw at his feet.

“And if you stay,” Morgana said gently, her voice suddenly close, but she made no move to touch him, “you’ll both die. Merlin,” she prompted, and, hesitantly, he lifted downcast eyes to meet her tears, “Arthur would  _never_  want that. Not for any reason. Not even for him.”

“I don’t care!” Merlin roared, finally fed-up, and Morgana startled away from him, eyes wide. “Arthur Pendragon is the most stubborn person I have ever met!” he exclaimed, gesticulating in jabs and sweeps at his shocked assembly. “If he’s still in there, if he’s still fighting, then there’s still hope!” He paused, casting a glance over the frozen faces. “And I am  _not_  giving up on him. Not for anything.”

“Merlin!” Morgana pleaded, eyes and cheeks shining with tears as she stepped forward once more. “This is your  _life_! Arthur-”

“Would do it for me.”

Absolute silence followed his assertion, all frustration, fear, and sorrow falling from their faces as they stared at him, but he knew the words were true. Maybe he hadn’t known until he’d said them, but, hearing them now, he was more certain than he had ever been of anything that Arthur would do the same for him, make the same foolhardy decision, probability of success be damned. Arthur would fight beyond hope, beyond reason, beyond the limits of himself or any mortal man, and, by god, if Merlin couldn’t be just as stubborn.

Slowly, the group came back to themselves, their shoulders lowering almost in collective agreement.

Gaius was the first to speak. “You’re right,” he said with a soft nod, “he would.” He smiled frailly, and, as Merlin looked over them, the others gradually followed suit with their own weak signs of agreement.

No one moved for a time, a heaviness settling over them as the decision properly sank in, complete with repercussions. Finally, Morgana broke the stillness with a ragged gasp.

“Oh, Merlin,” she breathed, lunging across to him in one long stride, her arms enclosing him so tight, he would feel it for days…or at least the time he had left. She turned her head into his neck, her wet cheeks sending a shiver over his skin, and he gently lifted his arms around her as her body rattled with a restrained sob. “You’re the very best of us,” she said, her voice a watery whisper against his jaw. “The very best of all of us.”

He swallowed hard, squeezing tighter around her as he lifted his eyes out to where Lancelot and Gaius stood.

Lancelot’s face was tight with control, his entire body drawn stiffly in, but, when Merlin met his eyes, he drew himself up to his full height, dipping his head in what no one could mistake for anything but a bow.

Merlin nodded back at him, chin bumping lightly into Morgana’s shoulder, and then shifted his gaze to Gaius.

The old man’s eyes were brimming with tears, some of them breaking loose as Merlin watched, his aged shoulders jerking with a sharp breath. A ripple ran across his face, tugging at his brows and lips in a wash of agony that spoke everything they would ever need to say, and Merlin felt his own lip trembling as he inclined his head in reply.

“He loved you,” Morgana whispered as she shifted a hand to the back of his neck, the faint zephyr of words for his ears alone. “You have to know that. He loved you, Merlin.”

He could not reply, his face folding up with a wince as he buried his eyes into her shoulder, neither of them speaking as the cold of his tears soaked the emerald fabric.

\---

The shackles they clamped on his wrists were not cold iron, a fact that grated on him, as if they were taking this one last opportunity to mock him for his innocence. He glared up at the knight clasping them around him, but found his heart quickly drain out of it at the look on the man’s face, his eyes studiously avoiding Merlin’s as his jaw clenched tight.

He was young—no older than Merlin himself—with a shot of dark hair and brown eyes, and his fingers trembled slightly as he fidgeted with the hinge of the second cuff.

“You’re new, aren’t you?” Merlin asked as gently as possible, but the man startled anyway.

“I- Er, yes,” he muttered in reply, bending low over Merlin’s hands as he tried to line the latch of the shackles up.

Merlin took pity on him, in spite of their current predicament. “It helps if you pinch the hinge,” he offered, and the man blinked up at him perplexed. Merlin tried to shrug without moving his hands.

Warily, the man bent back down, pushing at the top and bottom of the hinge pin as he guided the two sides of the shackles with the other hand, slotting them neatly together with a click. He stared motionlessly down at the now secured cuffs for a moment before lifting his eyes to Merlin. “You’re not really a sorcerer…are you?” he asked softly.

Merlin lowered his hands in front of him, offering only a weak smile in return.

The man returned it, somewhat sadly, and then, much gentler than anyone else had handled him so far, he gripped Merlin lightly but the upper arm, beginning to lead him toward the one-way corridor of the dungeons.

“I’ll take it from here, Bellamy.”

Merlin and the man apparently called Bellamy turned their heads, finding Leon striding toward them, expression brokering no argument.

Bellamy made a token effort, however, stammering out a, “But, sir-”, but allowed himself to be silenced by a single firm look from Leon. With an awkward smile at Merlin—which he did his best to warmly return—the man left, red cape fluttering behind him.

Leon did not speak or move to continue their journey, both of them standing there looking after the way Bellamy had left.

“I haven’t seen him before,” Merlin finally said, although they still did not look at one another.

“He’s new. Just knighted a few days ago,” Leon replied. “The ceremony was postponed until after Ared-” He stalled, and, though Merlin’s stomach swooped viciously at the almost-name, he did not want to dwell on it, not now.

“I like him,” he said instead, a vague smile on his face as he continued staring straight ahead. When Leon turned to him in his peripheral vision, however, he twisted to look up at the man.

Leon smiled, a weak twitch of his mouth. “Then that is evidence enough of his merit,” he said, and Merlin blinked, momentarily stunned. “Lancelot told me he went to see you,” Leon continued, and Merlin’s blood paused in his veins, but the knight shook his head. “It’s alright, I’m not going to tell anyone. And I’m not entirely sure he even realized what he said; he was just rambling and it slipped out.”

Merlin looked away, swallowing his panic and hoping it would be mistaken for shame.

“He said he offered you an opportunity to escape. That you didn’t take it.”

Merlin snapped his head up, relief rushing through him to find that Leon did not appear to have anything else to add, did not seem to know any more than just that. “I- No,” he murmured, shaking his head. “No, I didn’t.”

“Why not?” Leon breathed, rattling his head, and Merlin didn’t know what to make of it, this noble man looking at him like he wished more than anything Merlin had disobeyed every ideal the knight had been sworn to uphold.

“I- If I left- If I didn’t-” He stopped, the moment of broken-off eye contact signaling his point was made. “Everyone would think Arthur was still bewitched,” he explained, looking off down the corridor he’d soon have to walk, the corridor Arthur would be waiting on the other side of. “He’d never be able to be king.”

Leon was silent for a long moment, and then a puff of air drew Merlin’s attention back to him. The man was smiling only small, but the open warmth of it shone through regardless. “You know,” he murmured, eyes growing far away, “I always knew—right from the start—that there was something different about you, that you had something no one else did. I said as much to Arthur that first night, after the griffin attack.” He looked back to Merlin, something like pride in his eyes. “I didn’t realize until now that it’s not something you have at all. It’s who you  _are_.”

Merlin could do nothing but stare dumbly up at him as Leon clasped a hand to his shoulder.

“I have never known such a brave and noble friend in all my life, Merlin,” he said, and Merlin felt his throat tightening, but fought it back. “It has truly been my honor,” Leon continued, shaking his shoulder lightly as his grip firmed before sliding away along with his smile. “And I am so profoundly sorry,” he added, softer now, and Merlin, for some reason he would never understand, found himself smiling.

“Thank you, Leon,” he replied, nodding up at the man, “although I do not blame you.”

Leon smiled in obligatory thanks, but it was morose at best, and, with a gentle brush against Merlin’s arm, he directed him to begin to walk. They stepped side-by-side down the corridor, Leon only taking his arm before they opened the door.

Merlin nodded up at the man’s apologetic face, understanding the need for appearances, and then took a deep breath, bracing himself for what lay beyond.

The heavy wood was pushed aside, and the first thing Merlin noticed was the drums. They began thrumming as soon as he stepped out, the steady beat he had always found unsettling, but only now did he have a good reason, being on the opposite side.

Leon’s hand was firm on his arm, a reassuring squeeze added as they drew close enough to see the pyre over the crowd, and Merlin was grateful for the support, all of his mental preparation nowhere near adequately steeling him for the reality of the moment.

A single wooden post struck out from the bundle piles of kindling, seeming impossibly tall in the courtyard, as if it were trying to stretch directly to heaven, and, for the first time, Merlin wondered about such a thing, wondered where he would go. His magic rippled inside of him, but he pushed it down, calming it even as he could feel the power pleading with him inside his veins. It was common practice to sieve the ashes of sorcerers when they were burned, and, if he wasn’t, if there were no teeth or bones to be found, the ruse would be for naught, and Arthur would die. Besides, he had never tried transporting himself away like that. There was no choice, not for him. Maybe there never had been, his entire life woven by fate to twist together at this end.

Turning his eyes away from the pyre for as long as he could, he was invariably drawn to the crowd, and he stumbled, momentarily taken aback to find familiar faces lining the edges of the path, as if an orchestrated barrier against him and the oddly quiet rabble.

Gwen was not there, presumably with Will somewhere, Merlin having insisted to Morgana that he not be allowed to witness this. That boy had seen more of death than anyone his age should ever have to, and Merlin wasn’t about to add to it. He did gain Morgana’s assurance that she would tell him the truth though, tell him that Merlin was a sorcerer, like his sister, tell him how Merlin had eased her passing. He deserved to know that, deserved that small bit of peace now that it was safe to give it to him, Merlin far beyond the reach of the damage should he repeat it.

Gwaine and Percy were there, the latter striking such an imposing silhouette with his ramrod posture, there was a bubble of empty space around him, no one daring to even stand too close. Of course, from Merlin’s point of view, he was not so intimidating, his eyes damp and blinking as he tracked Merlin’s own.

Gwaine, on the other hand, looked more angry than anything, hands clenching into fists at his side, and Merlin gave him as pointed a look as he dared, warning him off. The man’s face twitched, pained, but, his chest heaving with a breath, he finally gave a clipped nod.

Merlin returned it, just a slight twitch of his head that might be mistaken for the jolt of a step, his eyes switching to Percy to include him as well.

The large man’s shoulders shifted with a sharp inhale, his lips trembling slightly with it, and the last thing Merlin saw before he turned from them was Gwaine shift just slightly to his right, his body brushing Percy’s arm in solidarity.

Nearer the front stood Lancelot, Morgana, and Gaius, the latter two in tears.

Merlin looked over Gaius and Morgana first, and then turned his eyes to Lancelot, trying to pass meaning through a slight twitch of his brows. ‘Take care of them for me,’ he hoped he conveyed, and, as the man’s spine straightened, nod deep and deliberate, he knew it had been understood.

Morgana and Gaius had their arms twined together, looped as if in escort, but it was impossible to tell who was supporting the other.

Morgana was weeping silently, tears tracking down her cheeks without a sound, and, without thinking about it, without even much effort, he reached out to her within his mind.

 _‘It’ll be alright,’_  he thought, and she jumped, a small gasp spouting from her as her eyes widened.  _‘Watch out for Will. And make sure he keeps up with his Greek philosophers.’_

She let out a startled little laugh, and then smiled, nodding even as the tears began afresh.

Next, and lastly, Merlin turned to Gaius, who trembled as he quietly sobbed. They had never done this before—Merlin didn’t even think Gaius knew he  _could_ do this—but now was the only time they had.

 _‘There was nothing you could’ve done,’_  Merlin thought to him, and Gaius froze, confused before his eyes slowly widened.  _‘Thank you. For everything,’_  he added, and then let leak through a hint of the emotions he was feeling, the words he couldn’t say, a tangle of family and love and fathers and friends.

Gaius sucked in a shaky breath, warbled with tears, but then he nodded, and, though Merlin didn’t quite hear it clear as a voice, he was sure this feeling of finally being someone’s son wasn’t coming from his own mind.

They had finally reached the pyre, no further delays available, and Leon let him toward the side, where the kindling had been laid in such a way to make it easier to climb. Leon applied very little pressure as they worked up the pile, his fingers barely brushing, but it would have looked like a hold to anyone watching, Merlin imagined. When they reached the top, Merlin stood in front of the post, facing the castle, Leon in front of him to undo one of the shackles before moving around to Merlin’s back, pulling the arm with him around the post while Merlin bent the other one back himself.

And then, he could no longer avoid it.

Without the barrier of the crowd or Leon, there was nothing obstructing Merlin’s view of the royal assembly, Uther and Arthur standing directly in front of him, flanked by knights. Merlin tried with everything left in him not to look at Arthur, but it was still Arthur, at least to his eyes, so they found themselves there instinctively.

He looked almost hesitant, almost uncomfortable, but that same something in his face was all wrong, and, as Merlin watched, a corner of his lips twitched in the barest hint of a secret smirk.

Merlin had to look away, unwilling to watch his worst nightmare playing out in front of him. Ironically, it had very little to do with the dying part, and everything to do with the fact that he had always dreaded Arthur would kill him himself if he ever found out about the magic. It wasn’t Arthur, not really, but it looked like him, and that was enough to be haunting.

“This man,” Uther’s voice rang out, but Merlin didn’t look at him, didn’t look at anything, his eyes unfocused as he watched Leon move beside Lancelot in the blurry edges of his vision, “is judged guilty of the use of enchantments and magic. And, pursuant to the laws of Camelot, such practices are banned on penalty of death.”

A small rippled of murmurs ran through the crowd, and Merlin almost wanted to laugh at the absurdity, as if they didn’t know all that already.

“We gather here now to pass judgment.”

Merlin knew this moment, knew what was going to come next, and yet, he still did not look up.

“Have you any last words before your sentence is carried out: Death by public burning?”

As petty as it was—but, if one was ever allowed to be petty, surely it was in their last moments—the only reason Merlin looked up, the only reason Merlin said anything at all, was because of how bitter Uther sounding in even being required to give him the opportunity. Steadily, he lifted his chin, eyes hard and focused. “Death is not the worst that can happen to men,” he said, voice ringing clear across the courtyard, and Uther turned instantly mutinous, no doubt preferring if those about to be executed didn’t quote Plato, taking away from the unwashed-peasant-the-world-is-better-off-without appearance.

Holding his eyes on Merlin’s in a glare, he flicked his fingers, a knight bearing a torch moving up to his side. Without a word, the exchanged clearly discussed beforehand, the knight handed Arthur the flame.

Merlin did not struggle, was not going to give anyone that satisfaction, but it was all he could do not to scream, to sob, to writhe and kick and claw, not for want of escaping, but because it hurt too much, hurt more than the flames were going to, considering he could at least help himself out that much. It wasn’t Arthur, it wasn’t, but it still  _was_ ; his hands around the torch, his hair flickering in its light, his eyes catching the orange and yellow hues and,  _god_ , he was in there somewhere, the Arthur he knew, the Arthur he  _loved_ , and Merlin couldn’t help him. He couldn’t save either of them in the end.

Aredian stopped near the base of the pile, flame held aloft, a slow spine-chilling smile spreading over his face, and, somehow, it broke Merlin’s heart.

He had no idea what, if any, of Arthur was left in there, but it felt important to say, felt important for him to know, just in case. “It’s not your fault,” he said, just loud enough to carry as he stared hard into the blue eyes he wanted to believe he was getting through. “It’s not your fault,” he repeated, strangled over that as opposed to anything else as he shook his head softly, hair grazing against the wooden post behind him.

Aredian tilted his head, raising a mocking eyebrow, and then lowered the torch toward the base of the wood.

Merlin finally broke, turning his face away as he closed his eyes, unable to watch this, not  _this_. He braced himself for the wood to catch, the  _woosh_ of fire that would come licking up toward him before the other knights came forward, lighting different portions of the pyre after Arthur’s inaugural strike, but the sound that burst into Merlin’s ears was nothing remotely the same.

A loud cry pierced through the courtyard, and Merlin opened his eyes to a scene of chaos.

Arthur was on the ground, the torch still burning on the stone nearby, the man seeming to have abandoned it in favor of clutching at his head.

“Arthur!?” Merlin shouted, struggling for the first time against his bonds. He could snap them in an instant, of course, but what would that solve? He could get closer to Aredian?

“Arthur!?” Uther also cried, rushing to his son’s side just as Arthur bent double, head nearly pressing into his knees. Uther bent, moving to kneel beside him, and then stalled, his eyes shifting between the shouting man and Merlin.

Merlin looked back at him, confused at the expression of comprehension for a moment before the obvious answer burst into his mind a second before it burst from Uther’s mouth.

“Release him!” he bellowed, standing up, eyes rabid with rage.

“I’m not  _doing_ anything! Arthur! ARTHUR!?” Merlin screamed, kicking kindling down from the pyre, he was moving so violently.

Arthur continued to writhe, hands clenched over his ears, teeth bared, and, as he shouted again, Merlin nearly sobbed.

This was wrong, all wrong. Aredian was supposed to leave him alone; he was supposed to be alright. He couldn’t die, he couldn’t. That was Merlin’s job.

Of course, the moment he took his attention off of Uther was the only moment it took.

Uther picked up Arthur’s discarded torch, lunging toward the kindling, a crazed look of triumph on his face, and Merlin heard his own desperate cry for help exploding out of him without a thought.

“ARTHUR!!” he screamed, eyes focused on the fire growing ever closer, and then, in a flurry of movement, it was gone.

Uther staggered sideways, the torch skittering away toward the crowd, who scattered to allow it more space. Incredulous, he turned his eyes to Arthur, who was standing now, heaving with effort, hands still outstretched from the push. “Arthur, what are you-”

Arthur didn’t appear to be listening, scrabbling at the front of his tunic for a moment before pulling something away with a hard yank, which he continued into a frenzied throw to the ground.

The flash of light was blinding, scattered screams breaking throughout the crowd, and, when the glow from behind Merlin’s eyelids had subsided, he turned back to the front, eyes trying to blink the residual glow away as he took in the scene.

Arthur was sprawled on the ground several feet from where he had been standing, but was already pushing up onto his palms, looking stunned, but otherwise undamaged.

The real centerpiece, however, was Aredian, laying on the ground exactly where Arthur had thrown the amulet, shards of blue surrounded his haggard, black-cloaked form. The man rolled onto his side, eyes frantically flashing around, and then attempted to struggle to his feet.

“Arrest him!” Arthur shouted, already standing, although somewhat wobbly, but his arm was steady as he pointed.

“No!” Aredian shrieked, his voice an unholy grating pitch that bounced over the walls. “No, you’re dead! YOU’RE DEAD!” He looked completely mad, eyes bulging and spit flying, and he flailed like a wild animal in the grasp of the knights who had already arrived to restrain him, infinitely quicker following Arthur’s orders than those following Uther’s had been.

Uther, for his part, was just getting to his feet, staring shell-shocked at the scene in front of him. “That- That was-” he stammered as he moved forward, pointing down at the remnants of the amulet. “He- Aredian was using… _magic_?”

Arthur nodded, never taking his eyes off the wild man, who was still struggling violently, his escort making little progress. “He put me under some kind of enchantment,” he snarled. “He was controlling me.”

“That  _witch_!” Aredian was screaming, throwing his head to the sky. “That WITCH!”

Uther moved closer, the anger growing on his face as he his eyes slowly narrowed on the witch hunter. “Take him to the dungeon!” he barked. “I want him dead by sundown!”

Aredian glared at him, spitting with furious mutterings impossible to decipher.

The king then turned to Arthur, expression opening. “Arthur, are you alright?” he asked.

Arthur bowed his head. “Yes, father, I-”

There was a loud cry, a series of shouts, and then the entire courtyard erupted into screams.

Aredian had somehow broken free from the knights, charging toward Arthur, a knife he had pulled from somewhere raised up in front of him.

It all happened too fast for Merlin to even cry out.

Arthur reached for his sword, but there was no way he could draw it in time, his face turning up with wide eyes as the knife began its arc toward him. A second later, Arthur was on the ground, Uther over him, grappling with Aredian. It was a flurry of movement, a tangle of limbs before the knights got there, running Aredian through without a moment’s hesitation, but there was already blood in the courtyard.

“FATHER!” Arthur shouted, diving up to catch Uther as the man staggered backward.

Merlin couldn’t see the wound, Uther angled away from him as he was, but he saw Arthur’s hand come away red, his eyes widening with horror down at the stain.

“Help!” he cried, struggling to hold the man aloft. “Help! Gaius!”

The elderly man was already on his way, and Merlin watched from his perch, hands struggling in the shackles, completely helpless, even if all he would have been able to do was comfort. Would he save Uther if he could? The question gave him only a moment’s pause, because of course he would, for Arthur and Morgana’s sake, who had now joined the group as well, shouting frantically down at her guardian. If it came down to it, he would do it, although, at the moment, Uther appeared stable enough, awake and more or less alert as Gaius looked over him before a group of knights were called over to carry him to the castle, the physician and Morgana hurrying along in their wake.

Arthur moved to follow, getting a few strides in before stopping, turning back, expression unreadable apart from afraid. “Merlin-” he started, moving to take a step back, but Merlin shook his head.

“Go!” he called, nodding his head in the direction of the retreating party. “I’ll be fine!”

A blink of time passed, Arthur hesitating, face twisting to torn.

“I’ve got him, Sire!” Lancelot’s voice rang from Merlin’s left, just outside of his field of vision around the post. “We’ll be right behind you!”

Arthur’s eyes flicked the direction of Lancelot’s voice, and then settled back on Merlin, something heavy in them that Merlin could only guess at, before he turned away, pounding across the courtyard to catch up with the group as they ascended the castle stairs.

The wood behind Merlin scraped and shifted, and then Lancelot was there at his back, breaths shallow with fright.

“I don’t actually have a key to these,” he muttered as his hands brushed Merlin’s wrists.

Merlin bowed his head, closing his eyes for barely more than a blink, and then the cuffs were falling to the wood with a dull clink. Merlin half tumbled down the pile before racing to the castle, Lancelot right beside him as they pushed through the frantic remnants of the crowd, and Merlin tried his best not to look down at the trail of blood marking their path.

\---

“Nothing?”

Gaius shook his head gravely, dropping his eyes to the floor of the corridor outside the king’s chambers, where Merlin, Gwen, and a large group of knights had gathered.

Merlin blinked at him, stunned. “No… No, there-there has to be something,” he urged, but the physician only looked up at him with defeated eyes.

“I’m afraid not,” he said, and Merlin’s breath hitched in his lungs. “The knife Aredian used was dipped in some sort of poison, or perhaps cursed, it’s impossible to tell.”

Gwen gave a small gasp behind him, but Merlin focused on Gaius, looking for the answer to a question he couldn’t ask.

“I’ve tried every known antidote, but they have had no effect. I’m-I’m sorry,” he added softly, looking out over the small gathering. “There’s nothing anyone can do now.” He looked pointedly at Merlin for a moment, who rippled his eyebrows, looking for extra confirmation. Gaius just barely shook his head, and Merlin’s fragile hope collapsed out the bottom of his stomach.

“How long?” Leon asked from behind Merlin’s left shoulder.

Gaius breathed, shaking his head hesitantly. “I’m not sure,” he murmured, “but it seems unlikely he will live through the night.”

Several beats of heavy silence, and then Gaius spoke softly to them again.

“Prince Arthur and Lady Morgana are with him now,” he said, “and I believe a priest has been sent for.”

“Can we…” Gwen trailed away as Gaius shook his head.

“They do not wish to be interrupted, but I will pass along your sympathies and prayers,” he answered, nodding to them, a gesture they returned, and then he turned away, moving back into the room.

Merlin looked around him as he passed through the crack in the door, but saw only the base of the bed, draped with red linens and rumpled with use.

There were heavy sighs all around, and Merlin twisted to see the knights looking between one another, expressions lost and grave. Lancelot has an arm wrapped around Gwen, whose own arms were gripped tight across her body. Leon was talking in low voices to Pellinore, Bedivere, Percy, and Gwaine, the latter two seeming to have become honorary members of the close-knit group. They seemed to reach some sort of agreement, nodding determinedly at one another, and then Leon turned to Merlin.

“We’re going to sort out patrols,” he said. “The news has likely begun to spread by now, and we don’t want the people to panic.”

Merlin nodded, the sense that it was odd he was even being informed only settling into him as the group began to filter away.

Lancelot gripped Gwen a little tighter in parting, and she looked up at him, the two of them exchanging a soft look as she placed a hand over his, and then he left with a quick nod to Merlin.

Gwen then turned to him. “Are you staying?” she asked.

Immediately, Merlin nodded, and she smiled, returning the gesture.

“Me too. I’ll go fetch us some food from the kitchens. I imagine we will be here quite a while.” She leaned in, laying a gentle hand on his arm. “I’m so glad you’re alright, Merlin,” she whispered, expression growing a bit dewy before she moved away, her back retreating down the stairs.

Merlin looked after her for a moment, and then moved his eyes to the door, throat thickening. He couldn’t imagine what was going on in there, the things that were being said, being considered, and surely, though no one had said it, they all knew what was coming.

This time tomorrow, everything would be different.

With a sigh, Merlin let his body loll against the wall, feet sliding across the floor as he lowered himself gently to the stone. It was uncomfortable, his muscles aching and head pounding from the strain of the past day he had been through without sleep. His head rolled on his neck, lolling to the right as he looked aimlessly down at the ground beside him, listening to the faint murmurs and rustles drifting out from beneath the door in front of him. He nearly fell asleep, but Gwen came back just in time, placing a small wrapped parcel of food between them.

They waited there the entire day, occasionally rising to stretch their aching legs, and Gwen fell asleep at one point, curled up against the stone, but rest eluded Merlin for the moment. He nibbled on a loaf of bread, watching the sun setting outside the windows at the end of the corridor, and then startled, leaping up on shaky legs as the door opened in front of him.

Morgana emerged, tear-streaked and panting, her eyes frantically skittering between Merlin and where Gwen rose hastily beside him.

“My lady?” she asked, rushing forward to take Morgana’s arm. “My lady?” she repeated, trying to draw Morgana’s attention, and the pale woman slowly looked up at her, as if in a trance.

“He-He-” she stammered, her head shaking dazedly. “He was my father,” she breathed, blinking up at Merlin, face contorted with hurt. “He was my father. My mother, she- He never told me.” She shook her head, voice trembling as her eyes spilled openly. “He never told me.”

“My lady, you must lie down,” Gwen said, though she looked rattled, her face a bit paler than normal. “You’re trembling all over. Come, let me take you back to your rooms. My lady?” She waited for Morgana to look back up at her, pale eyes still bleary.

“I- Yes-” she murmured, nodding as she swallowed. “Yes, thank you.” Shakily, she began to move along with Gwen, looking over shoulder at Merlin as they neared the stairs. “Arthur is staying with him. Until-Until the end,” she said, lip trembling over the words. “He- I do not know how long it will be.”

Merlin nodded, his only reply, and Morgana turned away, guided delicately down the steps by Gwen’s steady hands.

With a long breath, Merlin sank back down against the wall, knees pulled up in front of him, arms hanging off at the elbows. He stared steadily at the wooden door, willing it to supply him with answers, but it remained impassive. Gradually, his posture loosened, feet sliding out as his legs splayed out across the floor. His neck slackened, rolling to the side, and his blinks grew slower and slower down at the steadily blurring stone.

The next thing Merlin was aware of was Gaius’ face, close as he whispered softly.

“Merlin? Merlin, my boy?” he said, shaking lightly at Merlin’s shoulder.

“Hmm?” Merlin murmured, sleep still slowing his brain, and then he jolted, sitting straight. “What happened? What- Did-”

Gaius’ expression fell, face turning down. “Uther has passed,” he said simply, and, though Merlin had not had the kindest feelings toward the man, his heart ached for Arthur. “Arthur has been crowned king. They- The priest performed the ceremony in Uther’s chambers. He-He wanted to be there.”

Merlin blinked, certain his ears were mistaken. “Arthur- Arthur is… _king_?” he asked breathlessly, and Gaius nodded. “But… But the ceremony-”

“Only the rites are truly necessary,” Gaius explained, pulling away to stand up straight as Merlin lifted himself to his feet, the wall helping him along. “I imagine any feast will be…postponed.”

Merlin stared down at the ground, trying to steady his own breaths as they grated loud over his ears.

Arthur was king. The king of Camelot. Merlin had gone to sleep with Arthur as crown prince and noble knight, and, though he had known this was going to happen, he was still reeling from the shift.

“Is he-”

Gaius interrupted. “He left, I’m not sure to where. He didn’t want to wake you.”

“But where did he go?” Merlin asked, the whole world spinning around him, and he needed Arthur to anchor it, needed to be there to do the same for him.

“I don’t know, Merlin,” Gaius said slowly, shaking his head. “He only said that he needed to be alone.”

Merlin dropped his eyes to the ground, gaze skimming over the stones as he thought. His eyes quickly widened, and he flicked them back up to Gaius, already moving away toward the staircase. “Thank you, Gaius,” he called over his shoulder, nearly tripping over the steps in his haste.

The sun was rising over the hills to the east, creeping in the windows of the mostly deserted corridors as he thundered through them. He was breathing hard far too quickly, and used a bit of magic to help it along, his feet growing surer, his mind growing sharper. It was not long at all after that that he arrived at the heavy metal door, pushing it open with a single arm as he bounded out onto the balcony.

Arthur didn’t turn, didn’t even flinch. He was standing at the parapet, palms planted into the stone as he leaned out over the waking city, the soft spring breeze rustling at his hair as the door swung closed.

Merlin did not move, simply waited, watching the side of Arthur’s face, focused on some far away point Merlin could likely never comprehend. It would never be possible for Merlin to say how much time passed, but it was long enough for his heart to slow down, steadied now in Arthur’s presence.

Finally, Arthur spoke, his voice just enough to carry back to Merlin on the wind. “He said he was proud of me.” He didn’t move, didn’t even shift his face as he continued. “My father. He said he was proud of how I- how I handled you.”

Merlin swallowed, but fought the impulse to look away, watching carefully as Arthur huffed a broken chuckle that cracked across Merlin’s heart.

“The only time,” he breathed, shaking his head as he dropped his face to the ledge, fingers shifting over the stone. “The only time he ever tells me…and it wasn’t even me.”

Merlin remained silent, but did drift closer, slowly approaching from Arthur’s left as the blond stared down at the grey expanse of stone between his tanned hands. Eventually, Merlin was nearly at his shoulder, and Arthur looked back up, blinking hard out at the tree-littered horizon.

“I don’t know how to do this,” he whispered, almost as if it were meant to be to himself, and Merlin ignored it just in case. Arthur dropped his face again, jaw stiffening as his fingers gripped tighter to the ledge. “You should go,” he said, so level, it was mostly just dead. “Get away before the news spreads. You’ll have a hard time getting a horse otherwise.”

“What?” Merlin breathed, stepping against the parapet beside him, tilting his head as he furrowed it in question. “Why- Am I still-”

“No,” Arthur interrupted, voice steel as his eyes continued to stare steadily down toward his hands. “The charges against you have been dropped. No one will come after you.”

“Come after…” he murmured, drawing closer as he shook his head. “Arthur, I- I don’t want to  _leave_.”

Finally, Arthur looked at him, twisting his head on his neck, flabbergasted. “What?” he replied, pushing his hands off from the ledge as he straightened up to face Merlin. “Why-Why would you- Merlin, you can’t possibly  _stay_  here.”

That simple comment, those words falling together to form that specific phrase, was, without a doubt, the most painful thing Merlin had ever heard.

“Why not?” he creaked, and Arthur huffed in exasperation, looking away a moment as he shook his head.

“Because I almost  _killed_  you!” he blurted suddenly, Merlin leaning back, recoiling as Arthur twisted toward him. “Twice!” he added with a flail of his arms. “I-I was in there. The whole time, I was in there, and I-I couldn’t  _do_ anything, I couldn’t stop it!” His voice broke over the shout, and he looked away again, pounding his hands back against the low wall as he slowed his breaths.

Merlin didn’t even move, watching with slightly widened eyes as Arthur collected himself, closing his eyes as he hung his head over the parapet.

“Why did you do it?” he finally whispered, his face creased with pain and frustration as it turned to Merlin. “Morgana told me what you said. Down in the dungeons,” he continued, and, though Merlin’s stomach leapt, he pushed it aside, now not the time to be embarrassed. “Why didn’t you leave?” Arthur continued, straightening up again, voice rising. “Why didn’t you go with them? You could have  _died_ , Merlin! And you know, you  _know_ better than that. You know I would’ve wanted you to go, I  _did_  want you to go.”

Merlin opened his mouth, but no words came, faltering in the face of Arthur’s watery-eyed anger baring down on him.

“Why did you stay? Why? And why on  _earth_  would you want to now, after everything I-” Arthur stopped, holding Merlin’s gaze a moment before turning away with a jagged breath. He did not look back up, and, after a time, Merlin found his voice.

“It wasn’t you,” he said, and Arthur puffed a dark chuckle.

“Wasn’t it?” he asked, thoroughly miserable. “I mean, how- how can you possibly- How can you even  _look_ at me after-”

“It wasn’t you, Arthur,” Merlin urged again, moving perhaps too close, but Arthur didn’t react other than to turn his head farther away, expression tortured. “It wasn’t you. None of this is your fault.”

“You don’t know that!” Arthur cried, jolting away from him as he turned, eyes tight and voice strangled. “If I- If I had been quicker, or-or stronger, or-”

“Arthur, no!” Merlin countered, shaking his head as he closed the distance between them again. “There was nothing you could have done! Aredian…Aredian probably had this planned all along. You couldn’t have stopped it.”

“And what about next time?” Arthur continued stiffly, eyes growing fervent. “What if this happens again, and-and I-” He broke off with a shattered breath, and Merlin’s limbs seemed to move of their own accord.

He drew so close to Arthur, he could feel his breath, his hand twitching upward with an urge to touch he only barely controlled. “You won’t,” Merlin assured, and Arthur blinked away, unconvinced. “We’ll figure it out,” Merlin continued, shifting his head to bring Arthur’s eyes back to him. “Whatever happens, we’ll figure it out. But I’m not leaving.”

“Why?!” Arthur bleated, strangled in desperation. “Why would you want to  _stay_  here?!”

Merlin blinked, his eyes dropping to Arthur’s chest for a moment as he steadied his pounding heart enough for it to move out of his throat. “Because I belong here,” he said, slowly lifting his gaze back up to Arthur, who looked stunned. “I-I’m supposed to be here, in Camelot. I’m supposed to be at your side.”

In the scant second that followed, millenniums happened.

Merlin nearly gasped as his magic roared inside him at the words, shivering just beneath his skin, and he was shocked it wasn’t glowing clear through, his blood seeming to be entirely transformed with it. A certainty settled heavy in his mind, like he’d been living in a fog that had finally cleared, and he could now see the world in colors that had never before been. Now that it was obvious, he realized perhaps a part of him had known all along, a small inkling gradually growing in a corner of his mind his eyes always skipped over, but it took over completely now, rushing through him in a warm cascade.

He belonged at Arthur’s side. The Once and Future King.  _His_ Once and Future King.

Arthur was speaking, a softly patronizing “Merlin” falling from his lips, but then he stopped, staring down at where Merlin’s hand had come to rest on his chest.

Merlin stared at it as well, not entirely sure how it had gotten there, and he watched, mesmerized as his fingers shifted in red fabric of the tunic, pressing into the skin beneath, which shuddered with the vibrations of a heart quickening its pace.

“Merlin?” Arthur said again, a question now in his breathless voice, and, with no small amount of effort, Merlin forced his eyes to meet the paler, wider ones as they searched hard over his face.

He breathed for a moment, lips moving around false starts before the words finally broke through. “Would you stop me?”

Arthur looked entirely frozen, eyes locked to Merlin’s, and then the tension that had been housed in the creases of his face drained away with a soft breath over Merlin’s cheeks. He grabbed Merlin’s right hand down away from his chest, his opposite hand darting up to the back of Merlin’s neck as he tugged them together in a fluid motion so fast, Merlin didn’t think he’d ever seen anything like it outside of the battlefield, but then he wasn’t thinking at all.

Crash is such a typical word, but Arthur’s lips truly did  _crash_  into his, the impact painful against his teeth, but then he moved, and the slide of the chapped skin over Merlin’s lips put any discomfort far from his mind. He moved his hand back up Arthur’s chest, clinging into the tunic, his fingers scraping roughly across the covered skin, and Arthur made a soft sound against his mouth, almost a whimper except for the part that sounded like a growl.

Arthur’s hand pushed firmer into his neck, tilting his head to deepen the kiss, and then suddenly an arm was at his waist, tugging him to Arthur’s body.

He gasped into Arthur’s mouth, and the man took full advantage, tongue sliding between Merlin’s parted lips to lave over his mouth in slow, forceful swipes and swirls that felt like taking, like claiming, and Merlin’s body trembled under it. He lifted his other hand, sliding around Arthur’s neck and into his hair, sending a moan through the man that Merlin could feel vibrating against his own tongue. He couldn’t get close enough, practically climbing Arthur at this point, and he may have been appropriately abashed by his reaction if Arthur didn’t seem just as eager, tugging Merlin to him so tightly, he might as well have been trying to embed him into his chest.

Of course, air eventually became a hindrance, not enough being able to be sucked in between the pushes and pulls of their mouths, and they broke apart, but only at their lips, and only a little, panting open-mouthed with their kiss-sensitive lips brushing every now and again to joint hitches in breath.

“God, Merlin,” Arthur whispered, drawling over it, and Merlin shivered against him at the tone, his lips mindlessly reaching out to chase Arthur’s words. “So long,” he added, dipping his head so their foreheads brushed, his nose tickling at the edge of Merlin’s. “It’s been so long.”

“I know,” Merlin answered, equally ragged, his fingers stroking through Arthur’s hair. “I know,” he repeated, and then bent his neck back, tilting his head and pulling his forehead away so he could reach Arthur’s lips again.

Arthur’s hold shifted from his neck, sliding up through his hair, pulling a bit with the force, and Merlin positively keened, biting down on Arthur’s bottom lip.

Arthur hissed in a breath, and then took back control, crushing Merlin’s lips into his as his tongue absolutely massacred Merlin’s mouth, Merlin a whimpering mess in his arms, impossibly hard where he rubbed against Arthur’s thigh. Not a moment too soon, Arthur released him, speaking around open-mouthed kisses he couldn’t quite seem to keep himself from planting between words. “Merlin, I-I want… I want-  _God_ , Merlin!”

“Whatever you want,” Merlin assured, the amount he meant it absurd even to himself, and he moved his mouth past Arthur’s lips, trailing over his jawline. “Whatever you want, Arthur. Whatever you need.”

Arthur growled, and Merlin let out a sharp cry of shock as he was tugged back by the hair, the flash of pain at the base of his neck turning into something entirely different as it shot hot down his spine, settling in the base of his abdomen, a steady fire only building higher as Arthur ravaged his mouth. When the blond pulled away, Merlin protested at the absence, a soft moan escaping him as his lips vainly sought contact before he opened his eyes, and the scene in front of him nearly killed him on the spot.

Arthur’s hair was a mess, sticking up at every angle in the warm dawn light. His cheeks were flushed, eyes molten, and his lips were bruised red as they shifted with his ragged breaths. “Come on,” he ordered, voice rough and rasped, and Merlin felt dizzy, grateful for Arthur’s hand tugging him along as a guide back through the door.

They took a truly ridiculous route, climbing many more stairs and using many more servants' passages than expediency would dictate necessary, but Arthur never let go of his hand, and, if that was the perk of going out of their way to make sure not to meet anyone, Merlin would climb stairs for hours. Soon, however, but not soon enough, they were at Arthur’s chambers, and Merlin had just a moment to spare to wonder if he would be moving now that he was king before Arthur had tugged him back to him, latching the door with practiced ease behind him as he pushed Merlin with him across the room.

A soft gasp blew out of him as he fell backward onto the bed, eyelids heavy as he looked up at Arthur, practically a silhouette in the light slipping through the still-drawn curtains. All the available light seemed to be caught in his eyes, which looked slowly over Merlin, making him suddenly self-conscious, especially of the prominent bulge straining at the front of trousers. He shifted on the pallet, moving to bring his legs together in an attempt to hide, but Arthur stopped him, an arm shooting out to still his knee, and Merlin froze entirely, watching Arthur’s eyes track back up to his face.

Slowly, Arthur moved over him, one knee coming up to rest on the bed while he pressed a hand just above Merlin’s hip, urging him to move back. Merlin obliged, and Arthur swiftly followed, planting his knees into the space between Merlin’s legs. He hovered over Merlin, head level with his stomach, and looked at him for an impossibly long time, the kind of look that really  _sees_ , and Merlin fought everything in him to keep looking back, hiding so thoroughly engrained, it was difficult to relinquish it now. Gently now, almost tender, Arthur lowered himself down, palms planted into the blankets beside Merlin’s shoulders as he brushed against Merlin’s mouth with a soft kiss that, in spite of its light touch, still sent a tremor down to curl his toes.

Merlin leaned up into it, Arthur not nearly close enough, and snaked a hand up the back of his neck, pressing lightly in encouragement, and Arthur gingerly lowered his weight down onto Merlin, his supports sliding from his palms to his elbows. A hand came up to graze through Merlin’s hair just as Arthur slowly dragged his tongue across Merlin’s bottom lip, and Merlin involuntarily thrust up, both of them breaking away with a pained groan as their erections pressed between them.

Panting, they hovered there, Merlin’s hand shifting slowly through Arthur’s hair while Arthur simply let him, eyes closed, nose slotted against Merlin’s as their foreheads brushed lightly with every breath.

“I love you,” Merlin found himself saying—stumbled into saying, really—and his hand froze in Arthur’s hair the exact second Arthur froze completely, not even breathing. Merlin was terrified as Arthur slowly pulled away, afraid of what expression would be on his face, but there was no anger there, no shame or disgust, only surprise and perhaps a hint of wonder. Merlin couldn’t move even if he’d wanted to, just trying to continue breathing as Arthur’s eyes dragged slowly over every bit of his face, as if intent on painting a portrait from memory later.

Finally, just when Merlin was starting to panic, his mind racing around ridiculous solutions—like bursting into laughter and pretending it was all a joke—Arthur moved, and Merlin could not even respond beneath his lips as he kissed him, as shocked as he was.

“Merlin,” Arthur breathed against his mouth, and Merlin closed his eyes, sure he had  _died_ , because even in his wildest dreams, Arthur’s voice had never sounded like that. “God, Merlin,” he said, and then he kissed him again, hand trailing down from his hand to tingle over his cheek. “I love you,” he whispered, like someone would steal it if he spoke too loud. “ _God_  do I love you,” he added, and Merlin might have cried if Arthur hadn’t kissed him instead, an added breathlessness to it that Merlin understood all too well, his own heart and lungs completely out of sync with one another as his body thrummed with stunned elation.

“Arthur,” Merlin panted, his mouth echoing the only thought his brain could muster. “God, Arthur.” He pulled at blond hair, and Arthur obediently lowered himself closer, their bodies pressed together entirely, moans shaking between their lips.

Shortly thereafter, Arthur pulled away, and Merlin was about to protest before he felt fingers at the base of his tunic. He sat up, opting to get through this quickly before the self-consciousness could set it, and took the task from Arthur’s hands, pushing his fingers aside to wrench his own tunic over his head.

Arthur leaned back, peeling his own layer off, and then paused, looking to Merlin for confirmation, and, in perhaps the most brazen act he had or would ever do, Merlin reached forward, swiping his fingers along the waist of Arthur’s trousers, the wispy beginnings of hair tickling across his skin. Arthur groaned, grabbing Merlin’s hand and holding it away as he worked at his own fastenings, releasing Merlin only when he had to slide off the bed to remove them entirely.

Merlin avoided looking, knowing that couldn’t end anywhere productive, and tried to talk himself down from a blush as his fingers fumbled nervously on his own trousers.

It was just sex. He could do sex. He  _had_ done sex, although, to be fair, not entirely, not  _that_ far, but Arthur probably hadn’t done anything at all, not with another man at least. And, even if he had, this was  _Arthur_! He wouldn’t mock Merlin’s inexperience, wouldn’t force anything on him. There was nothing to worry about, no reason to be afraid, but, nevertheless, Merlin’s cheeks burned as he divested himself of the last of his clothes, going through a rather panicked moment of not knowing what to do with them before dropping them off the foot of the bed.

When he turned back, Arthur was already looking at him, or, more specifically, looking at his cock, which Merlin couldn’t really fault him for considering his eyes went straight to Arthur’s. This whole thing not apparently being nerve-wracking enough, his cock had to go and twitch as his stomach leapt at the sight of Arthur’s flushed length standing against his torso, and he might have actually caught fire with humiliation if Arthur’s eyes hadn’t widened in response, the tip of his tongue appearing to flick across his lips. Merlin could live with that response, he supposed.

The awkward ‘Now what?’ moment was just beginning to settle around his thoughts when Arthur moved forward, trailing a hand up Merlin’s thigh, and Merlin was distracted from feeling uncomfortable. As Arthur climbed higher, Merlin shuddered, his neck craning back against the mattress, and then there was a shift of pressure on the bed, Arthur hovering over him again. Barely grazing, he trailed his fingers down the V of muscle toward Merlin’s groin, a question in his eyes, and Merlin hoped he answered it as he slid his hand across Arthur’s cheek, pushing back to settle in his hair as he surged up to his lips. A second later, there was a warm fist around the base of his cock, and Merlin could not keep kissing to save his life, neck snapping back as he gasped, fingers tightening probably painfully in Arthur’s hair.

Arthur didn’t seem to mind, moving from Merlin’s mouth to his jaw, tongue and teeth scraping over his skin as he worked his way down Merlin’s neck, resting a while at his collarbones, which were burning red with attention by the time he moved lower. His hand twisted over the head of Merlin’s cock in time with a sudden drag of his tongue across a nipple, and Merlin nearly flew off the bed, shocked himself at the violence of the reaction.

“Arthur!” he shook out, hand grappling uncoordinated down toward the man’s hand smearing the beads of liquid down the achingly hard length of him. “Arthur, stop! I-I can’t- Fuck, Arthur!” Merlin could  _feel_  the smile against his torso, and then Arthur pulled away, hand and all, and, in spite of his its necessity, he whined at the absence.

“Move up,” Arthur said, pushing at Merlin’s side, directing him, and Merlin quickly obeyed, turning so they were the right way around in the bed, his head lowering down onto a pillow. Arthur chuckled, looking down at him. “ _Now_  you listen,” he mocked, and Merlin exacted his revenge with a glare and a single sudden drag of a fist up Arthur’s cock. Arthur nearly collapsed, his elbow rattling as he fell down onto his palm for support, a thick moan dragging out of him that nearly caused Merlin’s plan to backfire spectacularly. Thankfully, Arthur didn’t waste time after that, tapping at Merlin’s legs as a cue to move them apart so he could settle between them. Leaning up over Merlin’s body, he moved two fingers up to Merlin’s mouth, which Merlin didn’t hesitate sucking in, sliding his tongue over them purposefully slow as Arthur bit back a groan, teeth pinching his bottom lip white.

“Fuck, Merlin!” Arthur sputtered as Merlin released them with a wet pop. “Your mouth,” he said, shaking his head dazedly as he stared at Merlin’s lips, his hand lowering down between them. “I thought about it all the time. God, Merlin, I thought about you all the time.” He lunged down to Merlin’s mouth, greedily swallowing Merlin’s groan as damp fingers circled the ring of muscle between his thighs. “Thought about you like this,” Arthur continued, moving to his jaw, trailing up with damp kisses before clipping a sharp bite into his earlobe as a single finger began pushing in.

Merlin keened, chest heaving with gasps, and he wanted so badly to thrust down, to tell Arthur to just fuck him already, but a tiny voice of reason managed to break through the haze of lust, and he restrained himself to moans, focusing on Arthur’s voice hissing hot in his ear.

“I thought about you under me, about opening you up,” he said, another finger just beginning to push against the slackening muscle. “God, I wanted you, Merlin,” he practically gasp, but Merlin definitely did, fingers clenching tightly into the blankets as two fingers began stretching into him. “Wanted to know what you’d taste like, what sounds you’d make. What you’d look like when you came, when I took you apart.”

“Arthur,” Merlin begged, so far beyond caring as he shivered with lust, his mind completely lost to Arthur’s voice whispering filthy into his ear. “Arthur, please. Arthur!” he bleated as Arthur twisted his fingers just so, brushing against something that turned Merlin’s spine to lightning as it arched, a massive gasp gusting into his lungs as he bent his head back into the pillow.

“You’re perfect,” Arthur said, lips moving against Merlin’s collarbone as Merlin sobbed at the unrelenting massage of his fingers. “Perfect.” With that, his fingers were gone, Merlin barely having time to lift his head and open his eyes before a new pressure was at his opening, thicker and hotter than before.

He groaned, trying to hold still as Arthur pushed slowly into him, but it was difficult, fighting the twin impulses of leaping away from the pain and pressing himself into it. Arthur was fairly quick about it, however, and Merlin felt his body press flush against him, but he kept his eyes closed, pointing his face up at the ceiling as he breathed rhythmically, trying to relax the pain away. Arthur, for his part, kept entirely still, although Merlin could feel his arms shaking in small vibrations through the bed, and, slowly but surely, the pain subsided, Merlin finally opening his eyes to look up at him.

Arthur’s body was stiff, muscles twitching all over, but his eyes were concerned, face almost a frown, and the care of it was so impossibly beautiful, Merlin wasn’t sure he could ever scream the pressure in his chest away.

Gingerly, he rocked against Arthur’s hips, both of them groaning at the drag, and then Arthur took over, arms digging in beside Merlin’s shoulders as he slid out. He pushed back in gently, but, upon realizing nothing hurt, Merlin wasn’t having that. He snapped his hips up, causing Arthur to nearly crumple on top of him with a gasp, and Merlin couldn’t help himself from giggling, an airy sound that quickly broke off into a moan as Arthur gave a sharp thrust in revenge, skin slapping hard against Merlin’s body.

It was a free for all from that point on, Arthur pounding faster and faster as Merlin slowly slid up the bed, the pillows pooling behind him the only reason his skull wasn’t pounding against the headboard. Arthur grabbed hold of one of his calves, slinging Merlin’s leg up onto his shoulder with a rough tug, and Merlin practically screamed, the shift of angle bringing Arthur’s every stroke down harder and harder on that spot within him.

He was close, so close, closer than he ought to be after such a short time, but it had been  _so_ long since he’d been with anyone, and the fact that this someone was  _Arthur_  brought the whole thing crashing into him with a steadily rising pressure in his abdomen. “Arthur!” he gasped, fingers scraping over the man’s shoulder. “Arthur, I-”

“Yeah,” Arthur growled, and Merlin shrieked within a sob as Arthur’s hand closed around his cock, fist moving mercilessly over the skin. “Merlin,” he panted, voice strained. “Oh,  _god_ , Merlin!”

Merlin cried out, neck whipping back as his body went rigid, his lungs stilling in his chest as he seized. Heat whipped up his stomach in ropes, and his jaw worked around something he thought might be Arthur’s name, but his mind was lost, scattered beyond repair as he came harder than he could ever remember, than he had even thought possible.

He heard his own name from somewhere a thousand miles above him, and then Arthur let out a small, strangled sound of almost surprise, his thrusts growing disjointed, and Merlin forced himself to open his eyes to see it. Arthur was mostly quiet, a few small gasps and hitches in breath joining the spasm that shook through his body, and Merlin groaned anew as Arthur twitched inside him, filling him before slumping down, breathing heavily down at Merlin’s stomach. He let Merlin’s leg slide from his shoulder with a wince, and then, when they were both breathing a little closer to normal, he pulled away from Merlin, leaving him feel exposed and cold with the emptiness.

Merlin was feeling exceptionally useless, his muscles still limp, so it was with only vague awareness that he moved where Arthur directed him, somehow ending up under the blankets, his stomach more or less wiped clean.

“You with me?” Arthur’s voice asked softly from his left, and Merlin rolled his head, blinking at the tan face, which was trying to smile coyly, but couldn’t entirely conceal its concern.

Merlin smiled. “Yeah,” he said, or tried to, but had to clear his throat and repeat it. “Yeah, I’m here.”

Arthur smiled, genuine now, and then his expression grew awkward, his body moving as if to shift away to lie on his back.

On instinct, Merlin reached out, flipping onto his side as he found Arthur’s hand beneath the blankets, and Arthur stopped, turning back to watch as Merlin pulled their intertwined fingers up to rest on the pillows between them. He opened Arthur’s hand, palm up as he pushed the fingers flat, trailing and twisting his own fingers over the skin, dipping in and out of the spaces between Arthur’s calloused digits as he swirled patterns.

It was a long time they lay there in silence, and yet, it didn’t feel awkward, the sun slowly infiltrating the room with a brighter and brighter light. Eventually, Arthur spoke, soft and secret over their hands.

“I’m the king of Camelot,” he whispered, and Merlin stalled his tracing, looking up to find Arthur’s eyes unfocused somewhere in the space of pillows between them.

“Yes,” Merlin replied. “Yes, you are.” He did not resume his motions, watching as Arthur continued to stare aimlessly between them.

“And my father’s dead,” he added, voice growing rigid as his lips trembled closed, eyes beginning to blink a little harder as they shimmered.

Merlin swallowed, and then slipped his fingers between Arthur’s, clamping tightly to his hand. “I’m sorry,” he whispered, lifting Arthur’s hand to his mouth to press the words against his skin. “I’m so sorry.”

Arthur’s face crumpled, his head scraping against the pillow as he ducked it toward his chest, and Merlin released his hand, sliding across to tangle their bodies as best he could as he let his lips press into Arthur’s hair, nothing but breaths and tears breaking the silence between them for hours.

\---

It was six days before Merlin had a chance to sneak away, a million different papers to be signed, treaties to be reevaluated, and kings and lords to be reassured that Camelot was not, in fact, about to crumble into the sea.

Arthur was stressed to the breaking point, of course, but he was capable, rising to challenge after challenge, the duties never seeming to stop. From the moment they had pushed the funeral boat out into Lake Avalon, it had seemed the mourning period was meant to be passed, and a parade of people were walking through Arthur’s chambers nearly constantly, presenting ideas for everything from crop rotations to the official color of the scribes’ robes.

When the days were over, however, and Arthur had called for a bath, Merlin nipping down to the kitchen to grab supper, they would steal an hour or two, Arthur insisting Merlin join him in the tub, claiming it was because it was warmer with him. Of course, he couldn’t have known it actually  _was_  warmer, Merlin heating the water as long as he could reasonably get away with, and then they would clamor out, sputtering about the cold as they dried hastily before tumbling into bed, naked except for a few lingering drops of water they never managed to catch.

There were brief moments in between—kisses stolen behind tapestries, blowjobs snuck in between council meetings—but the nights were what Merlin liked best, the hours of darkness with nothing to do but learn one another. Merlin was surprised how much of it wasn’t physical, however, some nights spent just talking, competing for most embarrassing story as they gradually unfolded the years of their lives before they combined. Sometimes it hurt, of course, the largest part of Merlin being something he had to hide, but he wouldn’t always, he knew that now, which was what had brought him down to the cave, torch held aloft as he stepped onto the ledge.

He had to wait only a moment, and then there was a rush of wings, a heavy gust sending dust and flecks up rock up into his eyes.

“Merlin,” Kilgharrah greeted, bowing his scaly head. “I am relieved to see you well. I heard something about an execution?”

Merlin smiled, and Kilgharrah blinked at him, frowning. “Yeah, I- Well, I got out of it,” he said simply, shrugging.

Kilgharrah raised an eyebrow. “Clearly,” he said dryly, and then shifted on his perch, rustling his wings before tucking them back to his side. “So what brings you to me tonight, Merlin?” he asked haughtily, inclining his head.

Merlin shifted his feet in the dirt. “Uther’s dead,” he stated, and the dragon nodded.

“I had heard,” he replied, not remotely saddened, but Merlin was hardly one to be casting stones.

“And Arthur’s been crowned king,” he continued, and, though Kilgharrah did not physically react at all, Merlin could feel something shift in the air around them. “You knew, didn’t you?” he asked, though he was already fairly sure. “You knew all along that Arthur was the Once and Future King.”

Kilgharrah held his eyes a moment, and then, slowly, nodded.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Merlin questioned, stepping closer.

Kilgharrah shook his head. “You would not have believed me, Merlin,” he said, and Merlin ducked his head, embarrassed at the truth of it.

“I might have. If you- If you’d had some proof or something,” he defended, but Kilgharrah only shook his head again.

“No, you could not have seen the truth until you were ready,” he asserted, and Merlin decided it probably wasn’t worth the argument, not than any argument with a dragon was ever worth it.

“So,” he muttered, shrugging aimlessly, “what do I do now?”

Kilgharrah regarded him curiously, lip curling over his teeth in faint amusement. “You help him, Merlin,” he explained, as if talking to a child, and Merlin bristled slightly. “Arthur will be a great king, the greatest king the world will ever know, but he will achieve nothing without you at his side.”

“I don’t suppose you have anything more specific?” he muttered with a small smile, and Kilgharrah laughed, the sound filling the cave as he tossed his head in the air.

“I’m afraid not,” he chuckled. “It is not wise to know too much about one’s future. It does rather ruin the surprise.” He smiled, Merlin promptly returning it.

“Thank you, Kilgharrah,” he said, for, though the dragon had been rather useless tonight, he did still owe him a great debt for everything else.

The dragon bowed his head. “It is an honor to be of assistance, young Dragonlord,” he replied, and Merlin smiled once more, nodding his head as he turned away.

“I have to get back,” he said, half over his shoulder, “but I’ll be back as soon as I-”

“One more thing, Merlin.”

Merlin stopped in the entryway, worry nibbling at his gut as he turned, but Kilgharrah only tilted his head softly.

“I am…glad to see you content,” he said, somewhat awkwardly. “You have seen enough of suffering, my friend,” he added, voice dropping slightly, and Merlin blinked, stunned. Kilgharrah appeared to understand, however, and smiled one last time before dipping his head in farewell and whipping away in a flash of sinewy wings.

Merlin had just barely managed to shake off the interaction when he returned to Arthur’s chambers, the thought of a dragon considering him a friend not the sort of thing he had much experience with processing.

“There you are!” Arthur huffed when he entered, already exasperated. He stopped as he drew closer, casting a disparaging look over Merlin’s clothes. “Why are you covered in dust?”

“Huh?” Merlin murmured, blinking, and then looked down at his chalky garments. “Oh, I was…cleaning.”

Arthur snorted. “Well, I’m sure whatever it was is spotless now; you took all the dirt with you.”

Merlin sneered at him, and Arthur grinned, turning away as he waved a hand out to Merlin’s right, which is where he noticed the large silver tub already standing.

“Best get in quick,” he advised, already pulling his tunic over his head. “It’s been sitting awhile.”

“I could’ve gotten it,” Merlin contested, although he had no idea why—lugging buckets of water up stairs no one’s idea of a good time—but he felt strangely jealous at the thought of someone else doing it.

“Yes, well, I had given you up for dead,” Arthur replied, pausing from removing his trousers to wave an impatient hand at Merlin.

Merlin dutifully stripped off his jacket, rolling his eyes as he peeled off his tunic. “I wasn’t  _that_  late,” he muttered, and Arthur chuckled, shaking his head as he stepped out of his undergarments and tossed them behind the dressing screen.

“Whatever you say, Merlin,” he smirked, and Merlin tried very hard to glare at him, but it was difficult with the man completely naked and walking toward him.

He opted for not looking at him entirely, barely stepping out of the remainder of his clothes before Arthur took his arm, leading him to the edge of the tub. Merlin blinked a little longer than necessary, eyes opening as Arthur let out a small hiss of breath.

“That’s still hot! They must have been trying to  _boil_  me when it first got here,” he spluttered as he slipped into the tub, legs pressing against the sides.

Merlin smiled, stepping in and settling down between Arthur’s knees. “I believe you’ve just survived your first assassination attempt. And all because I was late,” he chirped as he leaned back against Arthur’s chest, head resting over his right collarbone. “I think that deserves a medal, at least.”

Arthur chuckled, the sound rumbling against Merlin’s back. “At least,” Arthur agreed, arms encircling Merlin’s waist. “Thank god for your horrific work ethic. Who knew being king would be so dangerous?”

Merlin reached up, patting the side of Arthur’s face with a damp hand. “Don’t worry,” he assured, “I’ll protect you.” And, as Arthur laughed, ducking his head into Merlin’s shoulder, Merlin wondered just how heavy a promise that would be.

\---

It had been a very long day.

Arthur sighed, grinding his fingers into his temples as he looked down at the blurring parchment on his desk, which seemed to catch fire itself in the flickering light of the candle near to spitting out on his desk. He hadn’t even been king for three months yet, and he already wanted to give it up, the constant barrage of petty squabbles of cataclysmic importance nearly more than he could take, and he perpetually felt a second away from strangling someone. He wouldn’t really want it any other way, however, and, though he whined to anyone who would listen—Merlin and Morgana, really—and glared at them when they rolled their eyes at him, he knew they were right. He loved the job, the responsibility. It was a terrible burden, certainly, but the rewards far outweighed any personal discomfort, and he felt he was settling more and more into his role with each passing day.

Gifts were still arriving, both for his father’s funeral and his coronation, and Arthur sent out all the appropriate thanks, keeping what he would have to use when the nobles visited so they would not think him ungrateful, but giving the rest away, the whole business putting a bitter taste in his mouth. He did not want to drink mead sent to him for such a sad occasion, for even his coronation was not something he would ever look back on fondly. No, the good that came out of these tragedies was not for him, but for his people.

Camelot had been understandably distressed after Uther’s sudden passing, the people concerned and fearful of attack, as new leadership often brought on, and Arthur had done his best to suppress the panic. The knights had kept up with their patrols, dressing in all the proper garb, something that Arthur often would led slide with his men previously. Not that he had needed to tell them to do anything at all, they had merely taken the initiative themselves, understanding the importance of appearing every bit the strong united front, loyal and steadfast in their faith in their new king.

Arthur had also wasted no time in passing a handful of new laws, some things he had been considering for some time now, but had never quite managed to find the nerve to bring up to his father. The council had passed them, of course, and the people were thrilled with their new rations and freedoms—although they were only small, slight enhancements in mobility between castes and the like—but Arthur took little joy in their praise, his mind focused on the hurdle that weighed heaviest on his mind.

He looked down at the proposal drafted on his desk, the one he had been working on for months, even before his father’s passing. It was a proposal to amend the laws against magic, changing both the restrictions on it being practiced, as well as the punishment for its misuse. At first, he had only wanted to change the required sentence, wishing for there to be an option of a trial instead of immediate and irrefutable death, but then… Well, then Merlin happened.

It had been far too easy, Aredian slipping in and preying on his father, on his paranoid fear and the superstition he had built into his people. It had to stop, this irrational hate, this spiral into madness they had all grown too accustomed to to even see that they were doing it anymore. These were still people, innocent people, like the girl Arthur had been too much of a coward to save, and Merlin whom he had almost lost. And no one said a word, no one saw a thing wrong with any of it, and it made Arthur ill to think of how many there had been, how many faces that flashed through his nightmares, twisted with screams. He couldn’t allow it to continue, not completely unchecked. The question now was how to proceed. He had a few ideas, outlined in the pages of parchment spread out before him, but he couldn’t seem to find the right balance, the right words. He’d probably have to ask Merlin again.

Merlin had been shockingly helpful about the whole thing, listening intently and providing informed feedback. “Magic isn’t inherently evil, Arthur,” he would say, silhouetted against the fire as he sat cross-legged across the room. “No more than your ability to wield a sword. It’s a tool, a gift. Any evil comes from the way people use it, not the thing itself.” And Arthur would smirk, teasing as he asked him when he got so smart, and Merlin would sneer, leaving Arthur no choice but to cross the room and drag him up into his arms.

Arthur rolled the parchments up on his desk, giving up for the night as he tucked them into a drawer and blew out the candle, the others scattered across the room leaving enough ambient light to navigate toward his bed, sitting on the edge with his head lolling into his hands.

He didn’t know how he would have gotten by without Merlin, if he were being honest, which he never would be to anyone if they asked. The manservant seemed to have a sixth sense, arriving just when Arthur was about to crack, even his wordless presence at the fringes of a meeting enough to ease Arthur’s nerves enough to hear out the last of the absurd suggestions before adjourning. He was now actively involved in training with the knights, and Arthur tried not to be jealous, but it was difficult when everyone would rather work with him, his positive reinforcement and easy smiles apparently much more desirable than Arthur’s sharp commands. He couldn’t blame them, however, and, besides, Merlin was always so tousled and winded after training, and Arthur wouldn’t give that up for the world.

Twisting on the bed, he shifted up to the pillow, planning to only close his eyes until Merlin arrived, but it was dark when he opened them again, candles extinguished and fingers moving soft through his hair.

“Go back to sleep,” Merlin whispered, but Arthur only smiled, turning his head toward the silhouette of Merlin’s, his sleep-wobbling arm lifting up into the dark waves of his hair.

“I wasn’t asleep,” he argued, raspy voice suggesting otherwise, and Merlin chuckled, twisting his head to click a quick kiss to Arthur’s wrist.

“Of course, Your Majesty,” Merlin muttered, fond of only using his title when he mocked.

Arthur glared, eyes adjusted enough to the light to see Merlin grinning in response, but, before he could reply, there was a sharp rap at the door.

“Your Majesty!” someone said loudly, tone frantic, and Merlin leapt off of him, Arthur following quickly after.

They exchanged a quick glance, Arthur nodding swiftly, and then Merlin strode across the room, unlatching the door to allow Lancelot to push inside.

“Your Majesty,” he panted, eyes wide and panicked, “we’re under attack. A small force coming in from the south.”

“What?” Arthur breathed, Merlin moving away from the door, face slack with shock. “Under whose banner?”

Lancelot faltered, mouth opening as he dropped his eyes for a moment. “They- They have no banner, my lord,” he said, flashing a glance to Merlin, who frowned. “They appear… They appear to be sorcerers. Sorcerers and a small army of Druids.”

Arthur’s blood ran cold, and so did Merlin’s, it would seem, who paled like death. “Sorcerers?” Arthur asked. “Are you sure?”

Lancelot nodded, gaze turning mostly to Merlin for some reason.

“No,” Merlin breathed, and Arthur turned to find him shaking his head dazedly, eyes miles away. “No, it-it can’t be. It’s too soon, it- I-I had time, I-”

“Merlin?” Arthur asked, stepping forward, concerned, but his manservant darted away to the window, practically throwing his torso out.

There was a faint rumble in the distance, not quite thunder, and Arthur saw a faint light mark the bit of the sky he could see around Merlin’s shaking head.

“Nimueh,” Merlin said, or that’s what Arthur thought he said, at any rate, his voice directed out the window, through which were now drifting shouts and screams.

“Merlin?” Arthur asked anxiously, moving closer to the servant’s back. “Merlin, what-”

“You have to go,” Merlin said, and Arthur stepped back as he spun around, eyes frenzied and breathing ragged. “You have to get out of here. Sound the alarm, take what you can, but you can’t fight her, Arthur, you  _can’t_!”

“Her?” Arthur murmured, shaking his head as Merlin moved back to the window, leaning out and scanning side-to-side. “Merlin, what are you  _talking_  about?!”

“There isn’t  _time_!” Merlin snarled, spinning back around, gesticulating wildly. He then calmed slightly, dragging a slow breath as he lunged to stand in front of Arthur, eyes pleading at him. “Arthur,  _please_ ,” he plead, head tilting as he urged, eyes glistening. “We have to go. Give the people a chance to escape before it’s too late.”

“What- No!” Arthur countered, stunned, never imagining that  _Merlin_ , of all people, would exhibit cowardice. “We can’t  _leave_. How many are there?” He asked, turning back to Lancelot, who was looking fearfully at Merlin.

“I- I’m not certain, my lord,” Lancelot stammered, shaking his head, “but they are a formidable force. The people from the outlying villages brought the news to us first. Sire,” he paused, giving a meaningful look to Merlin before turning back to Arthur, “they said their homes were burnt to the ground. That everything was destroyed. These sorcerers, my lord.” He shook his head gravely. “They are extremely powerful. I-I am not sure-”

“We’re not retreating,” Arthur bit through clenched teeth, and Lancelot bowed his head, but his eyes were worried down at the ground. “We have the best knights on the continent. And the walls-”

“Won’t help,” Merlin interrupted, and Arthur turned back to him, aghast. “Arthur, it’s too late,” he whispered, shaking his head.

Arthur blinked at him, completely appalled. “How can you  _say_ -”

“My lord!” Leon burst into the room, flinging himself around the door. “My lord, they’re at the wall. We’ve lost the northern gate.”

Arthur gaped at him, but could not even reply before Morgana and Gwen appeared in the doorway behind him, looking fervently around the group.

“Arthur, what’s going on?” Morgana asked, pulling her shawl more tightly around her, clearly afraid, and Arthur swallowed, something thickening in his throat.

“Arthur.”

He turned to find Merlin looking at him, pained with sympathy. Evidently uncaring of their audience, he stepped forward, taking Arthur’s hands in his.

“I  _swear_  to you,” he urged, and there was no space within his earnest words for doubt, “we’ll come back. We’ll rally our forces, regroup in the forest. You  _will_  get your kingdom back. But right now…” He breathed, shaking his head gravely. “Right now, we have to  _survive_.”

Arthur stared across at him, reluctant, and then looked to the faces around him, all of them afraid, all of them counting on him. Slowly, he nodded. “Alright,” he murmured. “Alright.”

Merlin nodded, and then turned toward the assembly, letting Arthur’s hands drop. “We have to sound to alarm,” he said, something in his voice that left no doubt he knew  _exactly_  what he was talking about. “Leon?” He turned to the tall man, who’s back straightened, apparently an instinctive response to Merlin’s authoritative tone. “Do you think you can get there?” he asked, and Leon nodded. “Good,” Merlin clipped, nodding back. “Hurry. Find whoever you can and meet us at the western gate.”

Leon practically bowed, and then ran from the room, but Merlin wasted no time, already turning to Gwen and Morgana.

“Gwen, find your father and brother, as well as all the weapons they have in their stores and any horses you can lay your hands on,” he ordered, and she nodded determinedly, darting from the room. “Morgana?”

The woman offered no argument, a little shocking to Arthur, and only looked earnestly back at Merlin as he turned to her.

“Find Gaius and Will, and then head straight to the gate. Your horses will be there.”

Morgana ran out, and Merlin finally turned to Arthur and Lancelot, the only two remaining.

“Go to the stables,” he said, looking between them both. “Head straight for the western gate. Don’t stop for anything, no matter what happens.” His eyes lingered on Lancelot for a moment, and the man’s jaw stiffened, something unspoken passing between them. “If I’m not there by the time everyone arrives,” he continued, and Arthur snapped his head up to find blue eyes boring into him, “leave without me.” Merlin’s voice was firm, a tone only used for immediate compliance, but Arthur knew that trick too well to be fooled by it.

“No!” he blurted, stepping forward to grab onto Merlin’s arm as the man made for the door. “We’re not leaving without you!”

“I’ll be right behind you,” Merlin assured, tugging out of Arthur’s grip.

“Merlin, wait!” Arthur called, catching him in the doorway. “Where are you going?!”

Merlin hesitated, expression desperate. “I- There’s something I have to do,” he muttered, twisting his wrist within Arthur’s grip. “I’ll be right behind you, I promise.” He tugged again, but Arthur held fast.

“Wait,” he said, tentatively releasing Merlin, afraid the man might bolt, and, though he fidgeted, he did stay. “Here. Take this.” He stepped back, grabbing his sword off the table and holding it out toward the manservant.

Merlin looked down at the blade, and then back at Arthur, his smile so sad, it barely merited the name. “Thank you, Arthur,” he said softly, placing his fingers on the sheath as he lightly pushed the sword away, “but I don’t need it.”

Arthur couldn’t fathom the look on his face, the strange sorrow in his eyes, but then he was gone, bolting down the corridor the opposite direction of safety. “Merlin!” Arthur called after him, making to chase, but Lancelot grabbed his arm.

“Sire!” he called, the shouts growing louder as several crashes could begin to be heard through the windows, light flashing ominously like fire through the glass. “We have to go!”

Reluctantly, Arthur turned, Lancelot leading the way as they raced toward the stables, bells tolling to signal the evacuation.

The streets were full of frantic townsfolk running with children and small bundles of possessions, some of them attempting to tow goats and pigs behind them as they rushed toward the gates. From somewhere to their right, there was a loud explosion, fire seemingly appearing from nowhere, and several people were thrown away by the blast, some of them struggling to their feet, some of them not.

Arthur shouted, trying to tell them to hurry, to leave what they didn’t need, and most of them listened, dropping their carts and heavier items in favor of running as fast as they could. He turned around, looking back up to the castle just as a spinning ball of flame collided with one of the towers, sending pieces of stone and debris crashing into the courtyard, and his mind turned to Merlin still somewhere inside. Subconsciously, he must have slowed, because Lancelot was shouting at him, telling him to hurry, and Arthur moved back to the front, unable to look back again.

His mind spun in on itself, trying to make sense of the too many things happening too fast. They were being attacked, his kingdom was being attacked, and there was nothing he could do, no weapon he could wield against magic. Maybe he had made a mistake, maybe magic was evil after all, but Merlin had said-

Merlin…

Arthur’s feet moved on memory, his eyes no longer seeing the path ahead of him, instead watching the repeating scenes of a thousand previously innocuous moments. Merlin had seemed to know this attack was coming, albeit not at this very moment, and even said something that may have been a name. Merlin helped Arthur draft the magic laws, answering questions quickly, his responses sure and detailed. Merlin had defended the young girl accused of magic, defended her viciously, and the way he had looked at Arthur, the hurt in his eyes at what Arthur had said. Merlin had saved Arthur’s life that first night, and countless more after the griffin attack, including Lancelot’s. And Lancelot had been the only one with him when the griffin was killed, a beast that even Gaius had said could only be killed with…

He couldn’t breathe, could barely coordinate his limbs to keep running, and looked slowly across to the knight running beside him. “Lancelot,” he breathed, half question, half plea, his voice strangled, as if breaking underwater.

The man shook his head, not looking Arthur’s way. “Don’t ask me, Sire,” he said, jaw locked tight. “Please don’t ask.”

Arthur stared at him a moment longer, and then looked back to the castle, a few of the windows in flames as screams echoed all around him, and none of it seemed real, nothing but the plummeting twist of his stomach as he knew.

\---

Merlin ran through the corridors, pushing past maids and nobles as he rushed up against the flow.

The attack had been planned for the end of summer, that’s what Nimueh had said. There was supposed to be time, time for Merlin to tell Arthur, to prepare him, to leave, if necessary, because Arthur could not stand to look at him anymore, but it would have been worth it for Arthur to find out about his magic if it meant that they were safe. This wasn’t supposed to happen. Not now, not like this.

No sense to be made of it now, Merlin just ran, practically falling down the steps as he charged into the cavern. “Kilgharrah!” he railed, and the dragon appeared immediately.

“Merlin!” he cried, relieved, and Merlin conjured a sword, rushing down the path to where the chain tethered the dragon in. “I did not think you would come.”

“And here I thought you knew everything,” Merlin snipped, force of habit pushing the weak jest more than anything as he lifted the blade over his head, magic glowing around it as it sliced cleanly through the links. “Nimueh’s almost here,” Merlin said as Kilgharrah flexed his wings. “We’re meeting at the western gate. Taking the forest path.”

Kilgharrah nodded, but did not reply before alighting, disappearing up into the darkness above him, and Merlin wasn’t sure what more he had been expecting, but found himself disappointed.

Pushing that aside, he ran back up to the cave entrance, but, just as he was about to dart through, he found it blocked.

Mordred appeared from the corridor, looking over Merlin with a heavy disappointment Merlin really didn’t have time for at the moment.

“Get out of the way, Mordred,” he said, and the boy blinked, face falling with hurt.

“No,” he said simply, but did not look all that sure of himself, hands clenching and unclenching at the air. “What are you  _doing_ , Merlin?” he asked, breathless with confusion. “Why are you siding with them? With those  _murderers_?”

Merlin sighed, shaking his head. “Mordred,” he began, impatient, but the boy shifted, blocking his path as he made to force around him. “They’re not murderers!” he defended, and Mordred’s eyes narrowed. “Mordred,” he tried again, softer now, and the boy let him step forward. “It’s Arthur,” he pressed, and Mordred tilted his head. “Don’t you see? Arthur is the Once and Future King. He has been all along.”

Mordred’s eyes widened briefly, and then turned incredulous as he shook his head. “What? Merlin,  _listen_  to yourself!” He stepped forward, pleading at Merlin with shaking hands. “You have to stop this! Nimueh wants you dead, Merlin, do you understand that? She’s calling you a traitor. We have orders to kill you on sight!”

“Then do it!” Merlin shouted, stretching his arms out to his sides in invitation. “Kill me! Because I’m not helping you.” He held Mordred’s shocked eyes as he shook his head, voice ice. “You’ll have to kill me, Mordred,” he said, and Mordred staggered a step back. “If you want Camelot, if you want Arthur, you’ll have to kill me.”

Mordred stared at him, stunned pain and confusion, and then, slowly, his face hardened, and his stood up straight. “You know, I thought I could reason with you. I thought, if I could just talk to you, get to you before Nimueh did, that I could change your mind. But it’s clearly far too late for that.” He swallowed hard, shaking his head. “Nimueh said they’d corrupted you,” he continued, voice darkening as the disgust grew in his face. “That they’d turned you against us, turned you against your people. I didn’t believe it.” He looked Merlin up and down, shaking his head disparagingly. “But, apparently, I was wrong.” He held Merlin’s eyes with his stone ones a moment longer before he blinked, a ghost of regret in his eyes as he shifted his feet just slightly into a steadier stance. “I’m sorry, Merlin,” he said flatly, and it hurt, hurt in a way Merlin hadn’t expected, had thought he had prepared himself for.

Now, however, truly faced with it, with the face of a friend he no longer knew, he hung his head solemnly, a heaviness settling in his chest. He nodded softly as he looked up. “Yeah,” he whispered, and Mordred flinched, “so am I.”

Mordred hesitated only a moment before he raised his hand, a massive bang erupting in the space between them, but Merlin was quick, diving forward into a roll on the ground as he passed beside Mordred’s legs. Mordred had barely managed to turn before Merlin was lifting his hand to the cavern entryway between them, willing the rocks down with a burst of magic. Mordred’s eyes widened, and there may have been a shout as he ran toward the doorway, but the rocks were too quick, and, a second later, Merlin was standing in the tunnel facing a wall of settling boulders, the muffled voice of his friend screaming from the other side.

Slowly, he lowered his hand, allowing himself a small moment to grieve, to reflect on the loss before he pushed it aside, hid it away in the back of his thoughts like he did with every other unpleasant turn of his life. “Goodbye, Mordred,” he whispered to no one who could hear him, and then ran up the steps, out of the caverns and toward the gate.

He was crossing through the castle, a shortcut over the third level that would lead him most directly to the servants' staircase that ran to the grounds, when two figures appeared at the end of the corridor. Even if they hadn’t immediately lifted their hands at him, it was obvious they were sorcerers, their clothes and Druid markings giving it away. Merlin ducked into the nearest chamber, pinning himself to the wall behind the door as he listened to their footsteps grow closer. Peering out the crack the hinges created between the wood and the wall, he saw a suit of armor across the corridor, his eyes burning even as the thought occurred to him. The armor sprang to life, charging at the two men, and, in the distraction, Merlin bolted, passing the struggling Druids and metal with barely a glance.

He ran into only one other enemy, a woman who he tossed into a broom cupboard with a flick of his hand, melding the lock shut with a touch, and then rounded the last corner, racing toward the doorway of the stairwell that would lead him to safety.

One minute, he was running, and the next he was flying backward through the air, landing hard on the stone floor, tumbling a bit before he came to rest, his body aching.

“Leaving so soon?”

His face tightened with pain, but he restrained a hiss, reluctant to give that voice any more reason to be smug.

“But I was just getting started.” Nimueh smirked at him as he glared up at her, her red robes draping out behind her, likely a well-thought-out mockery of the dynasty she sought to overthrow. “Merlin, Merlin, Merlin,” she tutted, shaking her head as she drew closer, and Merlin forced himself to his feet, the effort strained, but nothing appeared to be broken. “What a disappointment you are.” She stopped several feet from him, folding her hands in front of her as she tilted her head. “Emrys this, Emrys that,” she mocked scathingly, nose wrinkling, “and, in the end, you turn out to be just a thorn in my side.” She smiled bitterly, and every hair on Merlin’s body lifted with apprehension as a suspicion niggled at the back of his mind. “And after I went to all that trouble of finding you, of teaching you about the prophecy.”

“Finding me?” Merlin asked, stepping back warily. “What do you mean,  _finding_  me?”

Nimueh tilted her head, brow creasing with mock confusion. “You didn’t think that was a coincidence, did you?” she practically chuckled. “All those years you live in that little village, making apples float and turning cows green, and no one ever bothers you, no one comes looking. And then, suddenly…” She didn’t continue, merely lifting her hands in front of her, a gesture to the rest of the story he already knew.

Merlin’s limbs turned to stone. “You- You-”

Nimueh nodded. “I had to do something to get you away from those  _people_ ,” she sneered, rattling her head in disgust. “I sent some of my men to Cenred, told him about a powerful sorcerer hiding out in a small village near the border. And, well, the rest, as they say, is history.”

Merlin’s head was shaking in dazed disbelief, his breaths echoing fast and hard in his ears. “You- My mother- Will-”

“You needed a reason,” she explained, as if anything about this was explainable at all. “There was no way you would have just  _agreed_  to it, and revenge is a powerful motivator, kept you from asking too many questions. You had to believe the prophecy was real.”

“The-The prophecy… The prophecy isn’t real?” he asked, and Nimueh laughed, the air seeming to crackle with it.

“Oh no, it’s real,” she assured, eyes glinting. “You are destined to help the Once and Future King create the new kingdom of Albion. I just didn’t want you questioning  _how_.”

Merlin blinked, eyes scanning over the floor. “You knew,” he breathed, looking up in horror. “You knew it was Arthur all along. Didn’t you?”

Nimueh’s face twisted in a venomous smirk.

“But-But why?” Merlin muttered, brows creasing. “Why lie? If Arthur is going to bring about Albion, why would you want him dead?”

“My  _god_ , Merlin, haven’t you been paying attention?” she huffed, eerily at ease. “I don’t  _want_  Albion,” she hissed, stalking closer, her eyes fixing on him dangerously. “I don’t want  _peace,_  I want  _power_. I want to claim back our rightful place, to rule over these insignificant worms like we were meant to, like we were  _created_ to. Merlin,” she urged, smiling vaguely hysterically now, lost in her own bloodlust and greed, “we have been given a  _gift_. We cannot squander it living in the shadows.”

“That doesn’t mean people have to die,” Merlin argued, anger growing. “These people have done  _nothing_ to you! They’re  _innocent_!”

“Innocent?” Nimueh repeated, eyes sparking gold as her voice grew brittle. “There is no such thing,” she snarled, and then collected herself, expression growing regally impassive once more as she straightened. “I’ll ask you once more, Merlin,” she said, crisp and clear. “You can join me, rule over this new age at my side, or you can die,” she offered, as casually as if asking what he wanted for breakfast, and Merlin’s stomach twisted at the evil he had somehow missed for all this time. “The decision is yours.”

Merlin didn’t reply, only set his jaw, feet sliding into a steadier position against the stone.

Nimueh sighed, hanging her head as she shook it softly. “I must say, I had hoped otherwise,” she mused, and then lifted her face, eyes sharp, “but so be it.” She lifted her hand, and Merlin’s mind went blank, staring at the spaces between her fingers as if his life was flashing through them.

Suddenly, he felt something at the fringes of his mind, a thought pushing in from someone else, and his eyes widened, the present coming back into sharp relief as a blast of light rushed from Nimueh’s outstretched arm. Merlin threw up a hand, his magic acting instinctively, and the corridor shuddered with the collision as he blocked Nimueh’s spell. The resulting shockwave sent Nimueh staggering back, but Merlin was already running past her, charging full-tilt at the window looking out toward the wilderness at the end of the corridor. He heard a scream behind him, and blew the window out with a thought just as another spell came rushing at his back, barely grazing over his head as he jumped, falling down through the night air.

The ground was closing in fast, lit with flame as his body tumbled through ash and smoke, and he was just beginning to panic, sure he had misunderstood, when a black shadow rushed beneath him, and he fell hard onto the rough surface.

“Merlin?!” Kilgharrah called back, and Merlin scrabbled at the scales, finding a foothold as he clung on to the shifting ridges of the dragon’s back.

“I’m fine!” Merlin shouted against the wind, Kilgharrah’s massive wings creating shifting gusts with every beat. “Just go!”

Kilgharrah obeyed, speeding up, and Merlin was pushed flat against his back for a moment before he regained his bearings, crawling up to rest at the base of the dragon’s neck so he could see ahead.

The line of horses was obvious, Arthur’s white one standing out clear against the dark landscape, running outright down the path toward the forest, chased far-too-close by another group, also mounted, from whom occasional bursts of sparks flew. Merlin opened his mouth, but the words were apparently heard before he spoke them, and Kilgharrah surged forward, wings tucking in closer to his body as he dove toward the ground. He didn’t have a plan, so to speak, no spell ready on the tip of his tongue. He only knew what he needed, and, for once, he was confident his magic would comply.

“Get in front of them!” he shouted, leaning down across the dragon’s neck, and Kilgharrah’s wings gave a hard beat that seemed to be in acknowledgement. They were low to the ground, close enough that Merlin could hear the startled shrieks and shouts from below, both from the sorcerers and his friends, but it would be clear soon enough which group truly needed to be afraid.

As they drew up level with the front of the group, Merlin gripped tighter into Kilgharrah’s scales, a wordless cue, and the dragon banked hard, pulling up short as the Camelot riders continued to pass below them. He straightened up as Kilgharrah hovered, wings batting downward to keep them in place, and stretched a hand toward the approaching enemy line.

The sky rumbled overhead, thick clouds beginning in almost a completely straight line, twisting and flashing as they stretched toward Camelot, out across the wide field littered with enemy riders. Lightning crackled within them, the air thickening with the charge, and, as the last of their small assembly crossed the invisible line, Merlin swiped his hand down, the force of the magic a palpable pull of resistance against his arm. It obeyed, however, a spectacular barrage of lightning coming down in a blinding flash between the two sides, tearing at the road as it splintered trees and shook the very air. When the bolts faded, fire remained, a wide line of flame blocking the pursuers, their horses rearing and snorting.

Swaying slightly from the exertion, Merlin lowered his hand, catching himself on Kilgharrah’s neck, but he quickly recovered as the dragon turned, catching up with their group in a handful of sweeps of his wings. They reached the front again, and Merlin leaned down toward Kilgharrah’s ear. “We’re too conspicuous,” he said, thinking the other implications, and he could feel Kilgharrah’s irritation in their connection.

“Of course I can,” he spat in reply to what Merlin left unsaid, and then shifted violently under Merlin, nearly dislodging him as he dove toward the ground.

Merlin lunged forward, grabbing onto Kilgharrah’s neck, and found himself buried in a mess of hair, leaning back in alarm to see he was now riding a large, black stallion. He blinked, surprised, and Kilgharrah flicked a glance back at him with a quick jerk of his neck. Merlin smiled briefly, and then lowered down, gripping into Kilgharrah’s mane in lieu of a saddle and reins. “Where are we going?” Merlin asked over the thunderous beat of his hooves, Kilgharrah apparently having a clear destination in mind, as they were now leading the charge.

“I know someone who can help us,” Kilgharrah replied, apparently still just as cryptic as a horse. “An old friend.”

Merlin nodded, and then nudged a thought of affirmation toward him, realizing Kilgharrah couldn’t have seen him. He looked back, intent to make sure they weren’t being followed, and found eyes already locked onto him, sending a rush of cold panic through to his toes.

Arthur stared at him, his white horse some distance behind Merlin’s, but not so far that Merlin couldn’t see the look on his face. He looked stunned at first, wide-eyed, mouth-gaping shock stretched across his face, but, as Merlin stared back into his eyes, they hardened, his jaw tightening with icy fury.

Merlin blinked, looking away, eyes moving down to the hooves of the horses running along behind him. With a thought and a twitch of his eyelids, he wiped clean their tracks, enchanting the hooves to leave no further marks, and, as he rose back up, twisting to the front, his eyes passed back across Arthur’s just in time to see the flash of bitter hurt.

\---

They stopped galloping as they reached the edge of the forest, working at a quick trot through the night. The horses really ought to have gotten tired by now, their feet fumbling on the loose stones as the woodlands began to level out to sandier soil, but maybe Merlin was doing something to stop that too.

Arthur stared hard at the back of his manservant’s head, willing him to turn around, and yet grateful that he didn’t. He’d been doing that just about all night, and, now that the sun was beginning to rise, dawn breaking in the sky above the trees that grew thinner and thinner over their heads, other people had noticed. Most notable were Lancelot and Morgana, who seemed to be taking turns riding at his side, not speaking, just flashing him anxious looks, as if afraid he might snap at any moment. Not that Arthur was entirely sure he wouldn’t.

A sorcerer. A  _sorcerer_! All that time, all that… _everything_ , and Merlin had been sorcerer. And, almost an entirely different, more important point, he had lied. About how much, Arthur didn’t know, but, at this rate, he wouldn’t be surprised if it was everything. And he was just sitting up there, riding a fucking  _dragon_ —or horse, hell if Arthur had any idea anymore—like he hadn’t just performed the most terrifying feat of magic Arthur had ever seen, and he hated him for it, hated him for making Arthur afraid, for making him ache, for making him feel anything at all for someone he had never really known. And, most of all, he hated him for how much he couldn’t properly hate him, a part of him still concerned at the way he slumped a little to the side every now and again, lolling a bit too heavily with the sways of the horse over the ground. He should be glad to have the advantage of his opponent being tired, plotting his surprise assault, but, instead, he was wondering when Merlin had last eaten. Arthur wanted to kill him, and he wanted to protect him from how much he wanted to kill him, and the entire thing really just boiled down to not knowing how he felt at all, and, for someone like him, that helplessness was torturous.

So, he glared. He glared and tried not to scream, avoiding everyone’s eyes as the hours passed meaninglessly around him, mind turning over the same questions he couldn’t answer himself.

Finally, and rather suddenly, the trees broke to reveal a large plain stretched out below them, leading to what looked like another forest down in a foggy valley below. As they drew closer, however, it became clear it wasn’t a forest at all, but a massive field of tall hedges, carved into intricate patterns that seemed to stretch out for miles between the mountains.

Arthur’s eyes widened as they approached, the true height of it making itself apparent, and his stomach sank as he realized what it was. A labyrinth: the dreaded maze talked about only in legend, no one actually having made it through and survived to confirm its existence. Merlin had led them to their deaths. Fabulous.

“Um, Kilgharrah?” Merlin murmured in front of him, looking down at the back of the horse’s head, and Arthur blinked, tilting his head at the tousled hair.

Okay, so maybe the dragon had led them to their deaths, which was, oddly enough, slightly more comforting.

“You’re late, my old friend,” came a voice to their left, a figure slowly appearing out of the mist.

Merlin whirled around long before the horse did, but, when it finally turned, it  _spoke_ , and Arthur nearly faintly.

“Four legs are a bit slower than I’d anticipated,” the creature replied, and the man chuckled, stepping out of the last of the hazy shroud, and Arthur gasped.

“You,” he blurted, completely involuntarily, and Anhora turned to him, evidently not nearly as surprised as Arthur.

“I told you we would meet again,  _King_  Arthur,” he replied, inclining his head, a twinkle in his blue eyes from beneath his white robe. “Once you found Emrys.”

Arthur opened his mouth to argue, but Merlin interrupted.

“What?” he sputtered, and Anhora turned his eerily at ease smile to the brunette. “How-How do you know my name?”

Arthur looked between the two sorcerers, confused, and then blinked, mouth dropping open. “You?” he asked, breathless, and Merlin turned, startling a bit when he realized the question was directed at him. “You’re Emrys?”

Merlin’s head snapped back in alarm. “I- Wait, do you two-” He waved a hand between Arthur and Anhora, head shifting between them both. “Do you  _know_  each other?”

Arthur’s snapped his mouth open, determined to get at least one of his questions answered, but Anhora derailed that with a nod.

“I gave him the potion that saved your life,” the man answered simply, and Arthur’s stomach dropped along with Merlin’s mouth.

“I- You said-” he murmured, turning his stunned face back to Arthur. “You said it was a flower.”

Anger whipped bitterly up the sides of Arthur’s chest, and his face snapped into a hard glare. “You said you didn’t have magic,” he snarled, and Merlin flinched, head turning away, as if Arthur had slapped him from meters away.

“Arthur,” Morgana attempted to soothe, but he ignored her, twisting his neck to look out the opposite way.

“We require your help, my friend,” the horse continued, the awkward moment easing somewhat with the shift. “The sorceress Nimueh will be hunting us. We need a place to hide from her sight.”

Anhora smiled, bowing his head. “Of course,” he replied, stepping back, “I am happy to offer any assistance I can.”

“Thank you,” the horse replied, inclining his head. A second later, he bucked slightly, sending Merlin pitching forward before he caught himself.

“Er, yes, thank you,” he muttered hastily, tossing in an awkward bow, and Arthur would swear he saw the horse roll its eyes.

Anhora chuckled. “It is my honor, Emrys,” he replied, and then lifted his tall staff out in front of him, clicking three times into the ground beside his feet.

The hedges began to move in front of them, the horses that weren’t also dragons snorting in apprehension, and there were several quiet mutterings of soothing as a path formed in front of them, the barriers disappearing to form a clear line to the sea, which wasn’t nearly as far away as it had looked from up above—whether by a trick on the eye, or by magic, Arthur couldn’t begin to guess.

“This way,” Anhora said, as if there were any other option, and began leading the way down the path, Merlin and his horse leading as they walked at an easy pace beside him. “You will be safe here,” Anhora said as they reached the shore, the sound of the waves crashing coming up suddenly, the sound muted until they cleared the last of the hedgerows. “This labyrinth is enchanted. No one can get through, and no magic can penetrate to see what lies beyond.”

“Thank you,” Merlin said, sincerely now, and he slid from the horse, stumbling a little before he steadied himself on unused legs. “We are in your debt.”

Anhora only shook his head, and Arthur made sure his dismount brought him a little closer to the conversation, catching the soft words. “There is no debt in duty, Emrys,” he replied with a wizened smile. “It has been foretold that I would help you. If my actions can help you succeed in your quest, that is repayment enough.”

Merlin smiled down at the ground between them, and then looked up, the wrinkle forming between his brows that always meant he was thinking too hard about how to say something. “If-If you don’t mind my asking, sir…how do you know who I am?”

Anhora smiled at him. “All followers of the Old Religion know your name, Emrys. We have awaited your arrival for some time, looking forward to the day Albion would be reunited once more. And, as to knowing the name belongs to  _you_ ,” he added, chuckling a little over the words, “it is hardly difficult. You are the most powerful sorcerer the world will ever know, a pure embodiment of magic.” He smiled gently as Merlin blinked, stunned. “That kind of power is not easily missed, not even by someone as blind as myself.” He lingered a moment longer, but Merlin didn’t seem inclined to say any more, and the man turned away, addressing the group as a whole. “I would arrange your camp up here. The tide comes in over the rocks further out,” he announced, and Arthur turned to see the others had also dismounted, but had made no further move to unpack, all of them staring dumbly at either Arthur, Merlin, or Anhora.

None of them responded, however, and Arthur was just about to make an attempt when a deep rumbling voice replied for them all.

“Thank you,” the once-again-a-dragon said, suddenly in the spot the horse had just been standing, and there was a collective gasp and shuffle from everyone but Merlin, who didn’t appear the least bit perturbed by the transition that had just taken place mere inches from his back. “I’m sure they will do so.”

Anhora nodded at the dragon, and then at the group at large before he disappeared, vanishing quicker than a blink.

Absolute silence fell, only broken by the shift of feet against the uneven rocks, and Arthur felt everyone’s eyes boring into the back of his neck, but his never left Merlin.

The brunette stood deathly still, staring through the place Anhora had just been, the man’s words evidently just as much a shock to him as they were to everyone else, but Arthur didn’t care.

“Who are you?” Arthur breathed into the stillness, and Merlin’s eyes closed, his face pinching as it dropped toward the ground, but he made no move to reply, or even to look up. Arthur took a step forward, a rage growing inside him he couldn’t pick one cause for. “Who  _are_  you?” he bit.

Merlin swallowed, tentatively turning his face toward Arthur, eyes shining and voice strangled. “Arthur,” he choked, and it was  _horrible_ , the pain Arthur heard in his own name, and he wanted to cry, to scream, to grab Merlin by the shoulders and shout at him until he had none of this poison inside of him anymore.

“Who are you!?” he bellowed, moving briskly forward, forcing Merlin to turn entirely, staggering back with wide eyes at the onslaught.

“I- Merlin, I- I’m just-” he stammered, hand tentatively stretching forward, a plaintive plea for mercy.

“LIAR!” Arthur shrieked, because it was easier, easier to vent this violent blend of hurt and confusion as anger than tears. “You’re not Merlin! You’re-You’re a sorcerer, you- You’re  _not_  Merlin!”

Merlin shook his head, tears beginning to pool in his eyes as he stepped shakily backward over the rocks. “Arthur,” he whimpered, and Arthur flinched. “Arthur, please-”

Arthur lunged forward, grabbing Merlin around the collar and yanking him off-balance. “TELL ME!” he roared, shaking him slightly. He heard a scuffle behind him, shouts of outrage and of halting, and there was a low growl from the dragon to their right, but no one interrupted. “Tell me what you’ve done with him!”

Merlin put up no fight, dangling limply from Arthur’s grip, and it was only when he felt something hot rolling across his hand that he realized Merlin was crying, the tears dripping off his chin to fall over Arthur’s skin. “I’m sorry,” he creaked, shaking his head as best he could. “I’m so sorry.”

Arthur looked at him,  _really_ looked at him, at everything that was exactly the same, and shook his head in disbelief, slowly relaxing his grip. “No,” he breathed, wobbling backward as he released Merlin entirely, the man swaying unsteadily with the loss. “No, you- You’re not- You  _can’t_  be!”

Merlin said nothing, dropping his face to the ground as his shoulders shook with a wispy breath.

“Merlin- Merlin isn’t a sorcerer,” Arthur insisted, staring at the person that couldn’t be the person he knew, the person he loved, because then what would he have but a lie? “Merlin wouldn’t- Merlin  _couldn’t-_ ”

Merlin sucked in a gasp, sobbing quietly, and it all crashed down on Arthur then, the inescapable truth finally the only option left to even his desperate mind.

“Why?” he choked, chest tight.

Merlin’s face pinched at the ground as he closed his eyes. “I-I wanted to tell you,” he whispered, shaking his head as he lifted it. “So many times I wanted to tell you.”

“Then why didn’t you!?” Arthur spat, fury rising just as quickly as it had ebbed.

Merlin winced, his shoulders twitching against the blow of the words. “You know why,” he answered, soft, his eyes everywhere else.

“What, you thought I’d arrest you?” Arthur railed, gesticulating wildly. “Let you rot in the dungeons? Throw your neck on the block?”

Merlin cringed, crushing his eyes together, still not looking up, and that was confirmation enough.

Arthur calmed with a rush of shame, arms falling to his sides. He looked down and away, rocking on the shifting colors of the rocks for a moment before lifting his eyes again. “Would you even have let me?” he murmured, shrugging, because, as far as Merlin was worried about Arthur’s hypothetical reaction, Arthur was equally worried about Merlin’s. Would Arthur have even survived sentencing Merlin, or would his insides have been splattered all over the throne room with a flick of the man’s wrist?

Merlin lifted his eyes then, defiant. “Yes,” he said, soft but certain.

Arthur faltered, momentarily taken aback, and then found himself frustrated once more at being wrong-footed. “What about now?” he asked, shifting his hands out to his sides. Slowly, he pulled his sword from its sheath, and, though Merlin didn’t do anything but watch it, there was another bout of scuffling behind him. “What if I wanted to kill you right now? Run you through where you stand?”

An appropriately horrified reaction came from the onlookers, but Merlin didn’t even flinch, didn’t even so much as stiffen. He looked up slowly, defeated, nothing but sad pain in his eyes. “I’d let you,” he answered, and Arthur lowered the sword, face loosening with surprise.

“ _I_  would not,” the dragon said coldly from behind him.

“Kilgharrah,” Merlin interjected, weakly chiding, but Arthur had already whirled around, sword pointed up at the massive snout of the beast.

“Stay out of this!” he snarled furiously. “I should kill you too! Before you burn us in our  _sleep_!”

Kilgharrah, as he was apparently called, glared at him, nostrils flaring, and Arthur was  _this close_  to aiming a stab at him when Merlin broke in.

“Kilgharrah won’t harm anyone!” he bleated, pleading, and Arthur rounded on him, furious at the concern shown for a  _dragon_ , of all things.

“How do  _you_  know!?” he spat.

Merlin’s reaction was unexpected, his eyes flickering with surprise, shoulders shrinking as he seemed to curl in on himself. “Because I told him not to,” he murmured.

Arthur looked at him a moment, and then snorted. “Right, of course,” he muttered, patronizing. “Because I’m sure you can control a bloodthirsty monster with please and thank you.”

Kilgharrah’s massive claw came down hard on the rock behind him, unsteadying Arthur a little. “I would never disobey a Dragonlord!”

Arthur sprang back to him, spitting with fury as he jabbed his sword to emphasize his words, taking his anger out on perhaps the worst possible target. “My father killed the last Dragonlord years ago, you overgrown-”

“No.” Merlin’s voice was soft, but it stopped everything, Arthur lowering his sword as he slowly turned. Merlin looked back at him, meeting his eyes with sad severity. “Your father killed my father.”

Arthur blinked, brow furrowing as his lips parted, and then the realization set in, all sound wiped from the world to leave only the rush of his blood in his ears.

_“Because I told him to.”_

_“I would never disobey a Dragonlord!”_

“I-” Arthur’s stomach roiled with nauseous guilt as he dropped his sword with a soft clatter, the ground seeming to move beneath him, and he couldn’t puzzle out the conflict in his chest, the urge to apologize, to fix it warring with all the hurt he still selfishly felt for himself, and, in the end, he lifted the shield of anger once more. “Is that why you did this?” he tried to snap, but most of the heat had been lost, giving way to confused sadness. “Is that why you came to Camelot, for revenge? Do you hate me that much?”

“No!” Merlin cried, shaking his head, stepping forward in spite of the innumerable reasons Arthur had given him not to, foolishly stubborn as ever. “I would never- I could never hate you, Arthur, I- I-”

“Don’t.” Arthur couldn’t look at him directly, but he saw Merlin freeze in his peripheral vision, eyes widening at the biting cold of Arthur’s tone, his voice something he himself doesn’t even recognize. “Don’t you dare,” he added, voice breaking to a whisper as he lifted his eyes to Merlin’s.

“Arthur-” Merlin wept, but fell silent as Arthur gave his head a small shake.

“You  _lied_  to me, Merlin,” he cracked, and Merlin winced, eyes skittering away. “Since the day I met you, you  _lied_. Everything you said, everything we-” He faltered, swallowing hard, the tears finally pushing hot and thick in his throat. “None of it was real,” he breathed, shaking his head.

“No, Arthur, it wasn’t like-” Merlin pleaded, beside himself, arms reaching out desperately as he took a step, but Arthur recoiled, lifting a palm out to halt him.

Arthur breathed at the ground for a moment, willing his eyes to hold on for just a few more moments. He didn’t entirely succeed, but he set his jaw, lifting his face determinedly regardless. “Whatever this was, whatever  _we_  were,” he said softly, the words no more than a shaking breath between them, “it’s over.”

 Merlin’s lips quivered open, eyes wide with hurt, his arms dropping limply back to his side, and Arthur had to look away, unable to bear the tumult in his stomach at how  _wrong_  it felt to put that look on Merlin’s face.

He turned his cheek, speaking half the opposite direction. “Stay out of my sight,” he spat, and then left, charging down the beach without looking up, picking over the rocks until he could no longer feel blue eyes on his back.

\---

Merlin didn’t eat.

Everyone tried to get him to, handing him this or that with a small smile that was probably supposed to be kind, but they only ever served to make Merlin more nauseous, and he declined every offer with a shake of his head and lift of his palm.

He didn’t sleep either, even though Lancelot set up a tent for him, sitting on a rock overlooking the horizon for untold hours as the day crept away around them.

Arthur had never come back, and, although the others had expressed some concern, Merlin wasn’t worried, able to sense him clearly, alive and well some distance down the beach. Or, as well as could be expected.

Merlin hung his head between his knees, breathing out, rough and jagged. Of all the ways he had expected that moment to go, this outcome was actually one of the best. He wasn’t dead, he wasn’t banished, he was still in possession of all his fingers, toes, and his tongue, and yet, he considered that he may have taken any one of those over the feeling he had now, an echoing hollowness where his heart once beat.

“Merlin?”

He looked up to find Lancelot standing over him, but he did not verbally acknowledge him, figuring the eye contact was probably enough.

“We’ve put together a plan,” he said, far too gentle, and Merlin probably would have felt embarrassed at the kindness if he could still feel anything at all, “if you wanna come hear it. It’s a longshot, but I think it will work. Kilgharrah helped and everything.”

Merlin stared out at the rolling water, the question slowly pushing into his brain through the repeat of Arthur’s words that had scrawled itself over every inch.

_“Whatever we were, it’s over.”_

He nodded, barely a twitch of his head, and then stood, following after Lancelot and pretending he couldn’t feel the weight of everyone’s piteous stares tracking him along.

\---

Somewhere near the mouth of the cave he had taken shelter in, there was a small rustling sound, a shifting of rocks under small footsteps, and he turned, looking up from his chosen perch, finding himself strangely disappointed when he caught sight of the intruder.

Morgana picked across the dry spots, giving a small smile up at him in between steps as she gingerly made her way to his side.

He went back to staring out at the horizon, not quite ignoring her, but maybe not being entirely welcoming either as she lowered herself to the rock beside him.

“We have camp set up,” she said quietly, adjusting her dress. “Fire going and everything.”

He hummed, never taking his eyes from the mouth of the cave, and, eventually, Morgana stopped looking at him out of the corner of his eye.

They were quiet for a time, and then Morgana spoke again.

“Arthur?” she beckoned, and he turned to her, confused by her anxious expression. “Arthur, there’s-there’s something I-” She hesitated, taking a deep breath. “I knew about Merlin,” she said, and Arthur was shocked he had any stomach left to drop out. “For a while now. I- He told me when-when-”

“When what?” Arthur prodded, and Morgana looked up at him, earnest.

“Arthur,” she breathed, shaking her head, and Arthur’s stomach clenched with nerves, dreading what he was about to hear. “Arthur, I-I have magic.”

He blinked, mind strangely numb to the news.

Morgana huffed a sigh, looking out over the water, her eyes pinched with worry. “I-I think I knew for a while, or at least suspected, what with my nightmares coming true and all that, but I- I couldn’t control it, and-and Merlin-” She broke off, hanging her head with a long breath. “He helped me,” she finished, shrugging, vague and helpless. “He- I was so afraid, Arthur,” she continued, voice growing choked. “I-I didn’t know what to do. And Uther-” She shook her head down at her lap, sucking in a gasp, and, when she looked up to Arthur, her eyes were glistening. “I know it’s not easy to understand, Arthur,” she said pleadingly, “but…well, if  _I_  couldn’t tell you-”

“You could’ve told me,” Arthur interrupted, feeling lower than he ever had, the shame weighing down on him so hard, he must be shorter now. “I- I could’ve helped you. Protected you.”

“I know, Arthur, I know,” she urged, placing her hands over his. “And that’s my point. I  _knew_  I could’ve told you, and I still couldn’t.”

Arthur blinked at her, confused, and then looked away, dropping his head to the rocky ground between his feet.

“I asked him once, why he didn’t tell you,” Morgana continued, but Arthur didn’t look up, not sure he could take the expression  _and_  whatever was about to come. “It wasn’t that he didn’t trust you, Arthur,” she said, and he closed his eyes, swallowing hard. “He just- He didn’t want to make you choose.”

“But I would have chosen him,” Arthur defended, and Morgana lifted her hands away from his to raise her palms.

“I know that,” she said hastily, “and I think Merlin did too, it’s just… He didn’t want to put you in that position. And you would have hated it, Arthur,” she added, shaking her head sympathetically. “You would have felt like you were betraying Uther, and you would have resented Merlin for making you do it.”

“I wouldn’t-”

“Arthur.”

He closed his mouth, blinking away, not willing to  _say_  she was right, but deciding to forgo the pointless defense.

Morgana sighed, placing a hand on his arm again. “All I’m saying, Arthur,” she said softly, and he tentatively lifted his eyes to find her smiling gently across at him, “is that, sometimes…people can do the wrong thing for the right reason.” She held his gaze a moment longer, and then smiled just a twitch brighter, leaning in to kiss his cheek, her words echoing in the cavern long after her footsteps had faded.

\---

“So she didn’t feel anything?” Will said from where he lay next to Merlin, both of them flat on their backs on a large, sun-warmed rock as they gazed up at the stars overhead.

“No,” Merlin answered softly, shaking his head against the stone.

“It didn’t hurt at all?”

Again, Merlin shook his head. “No, Will,” he confirmed. “It didn’t hurt at all.”

The boy was silent for a moment, uncharacteristically still. “Merlin?”

“Hmm?” Merlin rolled his head to find the boy looking his direction, but not directly at him, focused somewhere around Merlin’s sternum.

“I- That butterfly. The one you gave my sister,” he began, twisting his fingers nervously. “I- Could you-”

Merlin smiled, sparing the boy the rest of the sentence. He lifted a hand up toward the sky, his fingers closed into a loose fist, and then opened it, a single blue butterfly fluttering out of his palm, wings glinting against the sky.

Will let out a slow awed breath, gingerly lifting a hand, the insect settling onto his tiny fingers. He brought it down to his chest in front of his face, tilting his head this way and that as he squinted. “Is it- Is it glowing?” he asked, and Merlin nodded across at him.

“Mhmm, they do that in the dark,” he replied, watching the boy graze his fingers in barely there strokes across the butterfly’s wings, something that would have worried him had the creature been natural. “I don’t quite know why. I think it’s because I used to be afraid of the dark.”

Will turned to him, smiling as if Merlin had just told some brilliant story, and then his neck craned backward, eyes popping wide. “Your Majesty!” he sputtered, twisting around to his knees, butterfly clutched to his chest.

Merlin simply froze, rooted to the spot, as if the rock had fused to his spine.

“I- I was just-”

“It’s alright, Will,” Arthur said, and Merlin closed his eyes against the sky, the voice joy and agony to his ears all at once. “Go on. Get some sleep. It’s going to be a long day tomorrow.”

“Yes, Your Majesty,” he bowed, rushing a few paces away before he stopped. “Merlin?”

Merlin turned his head, looking upside-down past Arthur’s ankles to where the boy was smiling shyly at him.

“Thanks,” he said, bobbing his hands where they were clutched around his chest, and Merlin couldn’t help but smile back as he watched the child rush away to the fires of camp a short distance away.

Merlin went back to looking at the sky, far too conscious of Arthur’s presence at his back, but nothing came to mind to break the silence.

“Leon told me the plan,” Arthur said, somewhat stilted, but Merlin couldn’t look at his face to see a hint as to why.

“Oh,” was all he managed to say.

After a minute more of awkward hovering, Arthur moved, sitting down beside Merlin, albeit a safe distance away. He stayed sitting up, knees drawn in front of him as he wrapped his arms around his knees. “And-And Morgana told me…about her.”

Merlin turned, startled, and found Arthur looking down at him, expression tight and nervous, but no longer angry.

“I-I wouldn’t- I would have-”

“I know,” Merlin interrupted, the torment on Arthur’s face too painful to drag out, and the tightness relaxed, a small breath of relief whispering from the man’s lips.

“I understand, though,” he continued, looking back out to the horizon. “Why you didn’t tell me.”

“I wanted to,” Merlin said softly, and Arthur nodded.

“I know,” he said. “I mean, I believe you,” he added, flicking a glance down to where Merlin lay.

It was quiet for a long time after that, Arthur staring out at the waves while Merlin watched the sea breeze in his hair.

“It’s not going to be easy,” he said suddenly, oddly vulnerable as he looked down at Merlin again, and Merlin blinked at him, confused. “This. Getting used to it,” he continued, and Merlin felt his eyes widen where they sat transfixed on Arthur’s. “But, I-I don’t- What I said before, I don’t-”

“Okay,” Merlin interrupted, and, again, Arthur looked at him like an angel of mercy.

“Okay?” he asked, not confused, just looking for confirmation.

Merlin smiled softly at him, nodding, and Arthur returned the gesture.

After a few moments, he lay down next to Merlin, his arm stretching down between them, hand placed so his fingertips grazed against Merlin in a way that could be nothing but purposeful. They remained that way for a long time, Merlin trying not to even breathe too hard lest he dislodge their tentative connection.

“You heated the bath water, didn’t you?” Arthur asked suddenly into the dark, and Merlin, infinitely grateful for the miracle of baby steps, laughed.

\---

Merlin stood outside the tent, taking in a deep breath as he turned the sword over in his hands. Looking down, he caught sight of his own eyes in the blade, blue and tight with fear, and nodded at himself, bolstering his courage as he stepped through the flap.

The tents had been smaller at first, but now, the day of the battle, they’d been expanded, a process carefully coordinated for when Arthur can been convinced to take a short run with Leon, Merlin not wanting to push him too much too soon.

Once Arthur had started speaking to him again after finding out about Nimueh-a process that, in itself, had taken nearly an entire day-the next hurdle had been getting him not to glare violently when Merlin performed magic. He had improved little by little over the past few days, but it was, understandably, not an easy process, and, Merlin reasoned, Arthur had warned him. He no longer looked like he was about to faint when Merlin lit a fire, but there were so many things he hadn’t seen, so many things Merlin had avoided doing, and he wondered just how long it would be, how long he would have to live in this constant state of worry that the next levitating pitcher or instantly dry sock would be the one that pushed Arthur over the edge. Still, he wasn’t going to complain, not while Arthur was still talking to him, occasionally even asking a question, listening thoughtfully and barely flinching at all as Merlin explained some subtle nuance or other of the way his magic worked.

The man in question stood across the room, shifting at the mail that Merlin had conjured, that process still coming a lot easier to him than transporting, and he didn’t want to take the risk of miscalculating when it was Arthur’s armor in question. Merlin would rather he have been in full armor, but Arthur had insisted he wanted mobility, although Merlin had his suspicions the whole magical armor thing played into his reluctance as well. The blond looked up when Merlin entered the room, eyes tracking down to the sword in Merlin’s hand. “What’s that?” he asked, nodding toward the blade, clearly intrigued as he took a leaning step forward.

“Your sword,” Merlin replied, promptly crossing to him and lifting it for inspection. “I-I took it to Kilgharrah,” he explained as Arthur removed it from his hands, expression falling a bit at the news. “Weapons forged in dragon’s breath are the most powerful weapons in the world,” he added, and Arthur, with a touch of a reluctant frown still on his face, swung the sword tentatively through the air, eyebrows lifting at the crisp sound. “The blade will never dull, never dirty, and there’s nothing it can’t kill.”

Arthur lowered his eyes from where he was testing the balance, quirking a skeptical eyebrow. “Nothing?” he asked.

Merlin shook his head, his mind catching up belatedly with the fact that he ought to have been a little more careful with that answer, but he wasn’t particularly afraid anymore, no more than the usual flips of his stomach that always came with doing magic openly, as conditioned to the threat of immediate execution as he was. “It’s called Excalibur,” Merlin said instead, and Arthur looked up to him, head tilting. “Kilgharrah,” Merlin explained with a shrug, “he said that’s what the sword will come to be known as, that it will become a great legend. Just-Just like you.”

Arthur blinked, looking back down to the blade at his hip. “Excalibur,” he repeated, testing the sound on his tongue. “What does it mean?”

Merlin shook his head. “I’m not sure, but there’s words on the blade,” he said, and Arthur turned over the blade in his hands, twisting his neck to read.

“Take me up… Cast me away,” he murmured, frowning. “What does it mean?” he asked, looking to Merlin again.

Merlin shrugged, shaking his head, and Arthur one last curious gaze over the weapon before sliding it into the sheath already strapped to his side, even that sound ringing clearer now, and his fingers hovered a moment on the hilt, considering.

“Thank you,” he said finally, not quite meeting Merlin’s eyes, but Merlin smiled at the small allowance regardless.

“Of course,” he replied, a little heavier than normal, because there really was nothing he wouldn’t do if it was within his power to do. Which was, he now remembered, the thought thickening in his throat, the main reason he had come here, Leon or someone else perfectly capable of delivering and explaining the sword. “I-I could…adjust that,” he murmured, waving a hand over Arthur’s mail, which was truly a bit too large on him.

Arthur visibly hesitated, muscles tightening, shoulders pushing back, but then his posture slackened just slightly, just enough of a crack for Merlin to slip through. “Yeah, I- Alright,” he muttered, shifting awkwardly on his feet as Merlin drew closer.

Merlin moved in front of him, trying to restrict his hand from shaking as he placed a soft palm on the shoulder of Arthur’s shirt. Changing the size, rearranging the links to better contour to his body, would have taken only a flick of his wrist from across the room, but he ulterior motivations were a bit more complex. “It might-” he said softly between them, just barely looking up at Arthur through downcast eyes, “It might…feel a bit warm. Just a little.”

After a pause, Arthur slowly nodded, and Merlin bowed his head, focusing his energy on the metal beneath his fingers.

He pushed out from the touch, twisting his magic into every hammered link that hooked over Arthur’s body, layering his will over the armor, a protection spell much stronger than any he had done before, the fervor of the need and the level of the threat seeming so much higher now. He felt the armor respond beneath him, submitting to his command, and he pulled away, feeling it resonating with his own power as he did, a familiar buzzing likely only he could detect through the air. When he looked up, Arthur was staring down at him, slack-jawed and dazed. “Arthur?” he asked quietly, terrified he had overstepped, but Arthur, seeming to sense the distress, quickly spoke.

“I- I could feel it-” he whispered wonderingly, glance shifting briefly to Merlin’s retreating hand. “Your-Your magic, I could- You’ve done that before,” he said, no question in it, but Merlin did not respond, still uncertain of the direction this conversation had turned. “When we were attacked by bandits on the road back from that hunting expedition, I- They shot at me, and I-I felt this… _something_ ,” he whispered, shaking his head, “and the arrow missed. I was so sure… But it missed.” He looked back up to Merlin, dazed. “All this time,” he breathed, blinking at him with disbelieving eyes. “All this time, and you- You never once-”

Merlin dropped his head, looking away to the side. “That’s not why I do it,” he replied to the canvas wall of the tent. Swallowing, he flashed his eyes to the ground, a detour before he turned to Arthur once more. “I-I was born to serve you, Arthur,” he said, Arthur’s expression unfathomable. “And I’m proud of that. I-I don’t need-” He trailed away, shaking his head. “I wouldn’t change a thing,” he finished softly, trying to push the conviction through his eyes, to prove it as best he could without words.

Arthur breathed slowly, eyes blinking at him, and then, with a gesture so slow, Merlin thought for a moment he might have accidentally slowed it, he moved forward, lifting a hand. “Merlin,” he breathed, fingers grazing his cheek, and Merlin shut his eyes, it all too much. “I- Whatever happens-”

“Don’t,” Merlin creaked, but Arthur shook his head.

“No, I- I have to,” he urged, and Merlin swallowed, casting his eyes down again. “I don’t want you to change, Merlin,” he said, hand sliding down to cup Merlin’s jaw. “I-I don’t-” He pushed with light pressure, just enough to lift Merlin’s face to his, and Merlin nearly whimpered at the look on his face, the fervor in his eyes. “I want you to always be you,” he finished in a whisper that barely ghosted over Merlin’s cheeks, and yet he still felt the words must have been carved there, full of a power not even magic could hope to rival. “Always,” he breathed, and then, hardly a touch at all, his lips brushed against Merlin’s

It was a chaste kiss, a mere press, Merlin too dazed to respond properly, but he moved up when Arthur pulled away, pushing back into him with a sound much more like a sob than he’d intended.

Arthur’s hand moved from his chin, sliding over his neck and jaw to tease his fingertips into Merlin’s hair, holding him tightly to his mouth, and Merlin just let him take, moving only to shift his arms up in the hollow of space between them, resting his hands lightly on Arthur’s sternum. Not long after, the kiss more desperate than deep, he pulled away, bowing to press his forehead to Merlin’s as they breathed over one another’s mouths.

They said nothing, nothing left to really say, and only shifted slightly at the sound of Leon’s voice calling, gradually growing louder as he neared.

“It’s time,” Arthur said quietly, sliding his hand away, but he grazed it down over Merlin’s neck as he went, softening the separation.

Merlin gathered himself in the moment Arthur stepped away, making a few final adjustments to his sword belt and boots.

“Ready?” he asked, every bit the king, and Merlin, ever his servant, nodded before following him out of the tent and into whatever waited for them beyond.

\---

The plan was simple enough.

They had split into teams: Merlin and Arthur; Lancelot and Leon; Bedivere and Pellinore; Gwen and Morgana; and Gwaine and Percy. They were scattered all over the place, approaching the castle from multiple angles, the idea being to split up the forces, giving Arthur and Merlin a clear shot at the throne room, where their surveillance—aka Kilgharrah—had discovered Nimueh was holed up.

Gaius and Will had stayed behind some distance in the woods, Kilgharrah with them, both as a guard, and as nearby reinforcement should Merlin call him.

They were pressed against the wall of a corridor, slowly making their way up toward the throne room from where they had slipped in through the caverns beneath the castle. Arthur was leading, sword drawn and pointing up by his head, ready to swing at a moment’s notice, and, while Merlin had a sword, it remained in its sheath for the time, Merlin’s hands the better weapons so long as they still had surprise on their side.

They stopped at a cross in the corridors, two routes stretching to the throne room from where they now stood, and the side of Arthur’s face that Merlin could see furrowed in indecision. Merlin looked to the ground, closing his eyes, two streams of images running parallel through his mind.

“This way,” he whispered, pointing to the left, and Arthur looked back at him, brow creased. “I can see the path ahead,” he explained, and Arthur’s eyes widened only briefly before he nodded.

“Maybe-” he muttered, halting before they crossed the intersection of passages. “Maybe you should…” He waved a hand in front of him, skittering around eye contact, and Merlin forced himself not to smile, not wanting to make this any harder on him.

He moved across Arthur’s body, taking the lead, and they continued their slow progress, listening for any sound that would indicate their comrades had been discovered. Nothing came, however, all going smoothly so far, and then, just a few corners away from their destination, Merlin stopped, something pushing fuzzily at the fringes of his senses.

“What?” Arthur hissed, leaning up to his shoulder. “What is it?”

“I-I don’t know-” Merlin murmured back, his mental sight blurring. “It’s- Something not right.”

What that something was made itself clear a moment later, a figure bursting out from the corner up ahead, charging toward Merlin, sword raised to cleave down on his head.

Merlin barely had time to widen his eyes before he was being yanked back, stumbling to regain his footing as Arthur surged up in front of him, meeting the blow with a crystal clear  _clang_  that could have woke the dead.

“GO!” he shouted, twitching his head over his shoulder, and Merlin started, a few steps into a run, and then stopped short.

His eyes widened, mouth slack as he looked at the man now squaring off with Arthur, sword held in front of him, eyes burning vengeance. “Mordred?” he breathed, blinking, dumbstruck.

Mordred’s eyes twitched in recognition, but his jaw set, no affection wasted in the gaze.

“Merlin,” Arthur said, pulling him back into time. His eyes were fixed stonily on Mordred’s, expression equally determined. “Go,” he said simply, flashing a small sidelong glance.

Merlin looked one last time between them, and then ran, turning away down the corridor. As the alarm sounded all around, he whispered a breath of magic back, and Arthur’s mail bounced it back to him, the enchantment ringing true.

He got to the throne room before any of the guards did, but wasted no time, blowing the doors inward with an almighty gust as he charged inside, drawing his sword.

Nimueh was sitting on the throne, the room entirely empty apart from her, and Merlin cast a wary eye around, the lackadaisical security even more worrying than the woman’s smirk. “I didn’t want us to be interrupted,” she explained, rising lithely, her mocking red dress shifting around her. “Seemed…easier. This way”—she flashed a grin—“I get you all to myself.”

“Why, you want a rematch?” Merlin snarled, and the sorceress laughed, the sound trembling with power that pulled at the hairs on the back of Merlin’s neck.

“Oh, that?” she chuckled, waving a dismissive hand. “No, my boy, that was no  _fight_. Although, I will admit, I underestimated you.” She turned to him, amusement falling away in an instant, leaving only glinting steel in her eyes. “I won’t make that mistake again.”

The door slammed behind him, and he twitched back instinctively at the sound. When he spun back to the front, it was to find a jet of fire shooting toward him, and he dove to the side, tumbling in a neat somersault before bouncing back up, sword at the ready.

Nimueh dropped his head, mouth twisting with a bitter smile. “You’ve been practicing,” she remarked, idling to her left, and Merlin matched her steps, the two of them circling slowly.

Merlin did not reply, only narrowed his eyes, watching intently for the smallest twitch of her hands.

“You never did have a problem with dedication,” Nimueh continued airily, seemingly unperturbed. “It was the  _direction_  you struggled with. Tell me, Merlin,” she said snidely, tilting her head at him, “how long do you think these people will be amused by you before you’re back on that pyre?”

Merlin’s stomach twisted angrily, his grip shifting on his sword, and then he blinked, the words catching up. “How do you know about that?” he demanded.

Nimueh did not reply, her face smugly impassive.

Merlin’s eyes narrowed, weight shifting between his feet in a ready stance. “You gave Aredian the amulet,” he snarled, and the slightly amused twitch at the corner of Nimueh’s mouth was confirmation enough. “He did say something about a  _witch_.”

Nimueh’s face tightened with a flash of anger, and then she smoothed it out into a demure smile again, their circling continuing. “He was  _so_ eager,” she strained, shaking her head. “So  _angry_. Desperate for a way to get back at you and your prince.”

Merlin bit hard at the inside of his cheek, censoring himself.

“It was all too easy, really. Convincing him to use magic to rid the world of magic. I would have done away with him immediately, of course,” she added, waving her hand at the aside, “but it was an  _awfully_  convenient way to get rid of you. Either you stayed, and you died”—she bobbed her head to the left—“or you ran away, and I found you again.” She smiled, tilting her head the opposite direction. “Real win-win situation for me any way you look at it.”

“Yeah, well,” Merlin snarled, quirking his head snidely, “you still managed to lose.”

Nimueh shrugged, as if such small failures were of little consequence against her grand scheme. “I suppose. But still, Uther’s not a bad consolation prize.” She grinned, teeth sharp and too white, and Merlin’s jaw clicked. “Ah,” Nimueh mused, halting to face him fully, “I see playtime’s over.”

Merlin narrowed his eyes, the woman smiling.

“Oh, well,” she sighed, shaking her head in mock disappointment before her eyes iced over. “It was fun while it lasted.” Her face twisted into a snarl, and she threw her hand up, Merlin diving away just as the ground beneath where his feet had been exploded in a shower of stone chips.

He ran at a crouch, rolling behind the throne, covering his head as the top was blown off in a thunderous  _woosh_  of flame, the heat flashing over him as the wood shattered into embers on the wall in front of him, catching the tapestries alight. Spinning up to standing, he moved across the dais, sword stretched out in front of him, pointed toward the approaching woman, who laughed.

“Really, Merlin, you know better than that,” she chuckled, shaking her head, the glow of the growing flames behind him building on the gold already burning in her eyes. “I am a high priestess of the Old Religion. No mortal blade can kill me!”

Merlin swapped the sword between his hands, spinning it as he rolled his wrist. “This is not a mortal blade,” he said icily, and Nimueh faltered, her steps halting as she eyed him skeptically. “It was forged in the breath of the Great Dragon.”

Her eyes widened, head shaking slightly. “That’s not possible,” she hissed, staring with growing horror at the blade glittering in the firelight. “The Great Dragon answers to  _no one_. Only a Dragonlord could-”

Merlin lifted an eyebrow, and Nimueh faded away, lips parting as she blinked at him.

She quickly recovered, however, face tightening back to fury. “You’re lying!” she spat, teeth baring.

“Maybe,” Merlin taunted, moving the sword back to his dominant hand as he readied it, “but you’ll have to get a little closer to find out.”

A muscle leapt in Nimueh’s jaw, and she shrieked, throwing her hands up toward him.

The fire leapt off the wall behind him, spinning into a pillar that arced down to where he stood, and he was forced to jump down the few steps, the heat of the near miss scalding his back. The shockwave of the impact unsteadied him as he landed, sending him staggering, and then he was running again, Nimueh waving the fire at him once more. He ran, lungs burning in the growing smoke, sword swinging at his side as he raced for the opposite side of the throne room. At the last minute, he turned sharply, diving out in front of the doors, the snake of fire slamming into the wall, rattling dust from the ceiling as it dissipated into a glowing char mark. There fire caught on the door behind him, slowly spreading over the wood, and they were both trapped in their own ways now, flame burning brightly at both ends of the room.

Nimueh stood in the center of the room, breathing crazed through snarling teeth, her eyes smoldering with magic and reflections, and then she threw her hands up again with a shout, sending a forceful gust of wind toward him.

He dodged it, the impact blowing the doors behind him away instead, leaving the wood to collapse slowly to the ground, kindling to feed the building flames. He landed on the stone and rolled, slamming a hand hard to the floor as he came back up into a crouch, directing the impact in a straight shot across the floor, and Nimueh stumbled back, tumbling onto her back as Merlin rattled the ground beneath her. He ran across the room, racing to her as he raised his sword, but it came down on nothing but stone, the sorceress rolling away from the blow before it could connect. A spell crashed into his side, sending him rocketing away, spinning through the air before slamming hard against the dais steps, his sword clattering away. He slid down to pool on the floor, elbows shaking as he pushed up to his hands and knees, vision swimming as he tried to focus on the cindered ground beneath his palms. With a shout, he was spun, pinned back up against the stone stairs, a trickle of blood running down the back of his neck. He struggled vainly, unable to move against the force of Nimueh’s magic as the woman slowly stalked toward him, hand outstretched, eyes smoldering coals.

She laughed, the pressure on Merlin’s chest increasing until he couldn’t breathe, ribs creaking under the strain. “So,  _this_  is Emrys! The greatest sorcerer the world will ever know!” she sang in mocking, and Merlin screamed, a spasm of pain rocking his body as she twitched her fingers. “All that time,” she snarled, shaking her head, “all that  _wasted_  energy, and you’re no one in the end, are you?” She tilted her head down at him in a taunting pout. “Just a peasant. A sad little orphan playing at power.”

There was a loud crack, and he screamed as his left arm exploded in agony, tears stinging at his eyes from the smoke and pain.

Nimueh only smiled, red lips drawn up in triumph. “But, don’t worry,” she murmured, eyes narrowing. “You’ll all be reunited soon enough.”

Merlin’s eyes widened as he watched her draw her hand up above her shoulder, the fatal blow sparking at the tips of her fingertips, and he didn’t think, didn’t have time to think, merely let his magic  _do_. He broke free of her hold, throwing his right hand up in front of him as hers came down.

Lightning streaked through the blown-out windows, forking in from the left as it hit her square in the chest, and Merlin had to look away, covering his face with an arm, the light too bright, the heat too intense.

There was no sound, no scream, only the crack of the bolt, following swiftly by thunder rolling away somewhere in the sky above him, and, as the light behind his eyes faded, Merlin lowered his arm, blinking out at the room.

There was a massive scald on the ground where Nimueh had stood, but none of her remained, nothing but a slowly burning scrap of red fabric that looked to be a large portion of her dress.

Merlin slowly sat up, tremors rattling his body as the shock coursed in, and he blinked, trying to center himself, to slow his galloping heart. There was shouting from outside, cries of terror and of triumph, and Merlin recognized Gwaine’s roar above the din, heralding their victory. With a hiss of pain, catching his left arm against his side, Merlin stood, knees wobbling at first, but quickly set. He looked around the room, taking in the clusters of flames still licking across the walls and ceiling, and lifted the arm he could still use, bobbing his hand to extinguish them. He could clean the rest of it up later, the imminent danger of the castle burning down avoided for now, and instead staggered toward the door, gradually building speed.

Lancelot appeared in the doorway in front of him, eyes panicked and searching, but they softened with relief when they met his. “Merlin!” he breathed, rushing to his side. “Are you alright?” he asked, eyes tracking down to where Merlin was clutching at his arm.

Merlin nodded stiffly. “Fine,” he grated out. “The others-”

“Fine,” Lancelot interrupted, nodding. “The sorcerers took off after your little light show,” he added with a soft smile, and Merlin let out a weak chuckle, which quickly turned into a wince as his arm shifted.

“Arthur?” he asked, and Lancelot frowned.

“No, I haven’t seen him,” he said, tone growing anxious as he shook his head. “I thought he was with you.”

Merlin’s heart thudded in his throat again, and he moved past Lancelot, swiftly back the direction he had come. “He was. We-We got separated. Arthur!?”

“Merlin!” Lancelot called behind him, but Merlin didn’t stop, and the knight’s footsteps quickened to keep pace behind him.

Up ahead, Merlin slowed, hearing a familiar sound, and then ran to the left, following the clashing of swords. He ran up the corridor, eyes frantically searching side-to-side as the sounds of battle grew louder, and then, finally, he saw them, rounding a corridor to find them on the opposite end.

Arthur and Mordred swung viciously, sweat beaded on both of their brows, the match apparently evenly set. Arthur had his back to him, but Mordred saw him over Arthur’s shoulder, his eyes growing wide as he took in Merlin’s charred appearance. The momentary lapse cost him dearly, however, and Arthur managed to knock his sword out of his hand, sending it skittering away across the stone.

Mordred turned, frantic, looking between Arthur bringing his sword around for the final blow, and his own sword lying a few feet away, and Merlin knew what was going to happen before he even saw Mordred’s hand extend.

“ARTHUR!” he screamed, lunging forward, good arm outstretched, the scene running in slow motion before it stopped completely.

Mordred’s eyes glowed gold, his sword hilt summoned back to his hand, and Merlin heard Lancelot’s voice shouting behind him, he himself unable to speak.

Merlin’s breath hitched as the sword pierced Arthur’s side, and he staggered to a stop, blinking slowly across the scene.

Arthur stumbled backward, his back to Merlin, bending his head down toward the wound. Gingerly, he placed a hand on the hilt of Mordred’s sword, drawing it out of his skin, entirely bloodless as he held it up in the light.

“What-” Mordred breathed, eyes wide, and those were his last words, Arthur lunging down with ruthless efficiency as he plunged his sword through the man’s heart. Mordred then collapsed to the ground at Arthur’s feet, bleeding out slowly onto the stone floor.

Merlin swayed, stepping to the side until he was leaning against the wall, his hand trembling as it lifted to his tunic.

Down the corridor, Arthur slowly turned, hands touching wonderingly to where the stab wound should have been. He lifted his eyes from his torso, dragging them over to Merlin, face full of awe, and Merlin let out a puff of a laugh, or maybe a sob.

He was so beautiful. God, he was beautiful.

And that was when he noticed.

Arthur’s eyes tightened, a wordless question, and then trailed down to where Merlin was pushing a hand into his side, but the blood was still seeping through, pouring through, sliding between his pale fingers instead of tan ones.

Merlin watched Arthur’s lips form his name, a watery shout reaching his ears, but he couldn’t understand it. He slipped to the floor, legs crumpling beneath him as he grated against the wall, his breath so loud in his ears, and all the rest of it was pain, pain and the thick metallic smell of blood, but at least it was his blood. At least it was his.

Forgive me, Arthur. I can’t be sorry.

He felt his body moved, shifted so he was lying flat on the floor, several faces hovering above him, and then Arthur’s was there again, close and yelling something Merlin couldn’t decipher, but the pain was clear on his face. Merlin lifted a hand, trying to smooth it out, but only managed to graze lightly across a stubble-roughened cheek before his arm fell limply back to his side, the whole world swirling out to the sound of his name in Arthur’s voice.

\---

“MERLIN!?” Arthur screamed, Merlin’s head lolling to the side as his hand slipped from Arthur’s face, his eyes closing. “WHAT DID YOU DO!?” He shook him at the shoulders, rattling the boy against the floor. “WHAT DID YOU  _DO_!?”

“Get Gaius!” somebody shouted, and Arthur shook his head, though he didn’t say anything.

There was no time to get Gaius, too much blood already pooled around the wound that should have been Arthur’s and dammit, Merlin, DAMMIT!

“Merlin!?” Arthur cried, shaking at him again, his throat tight with panic and threatening tears. “Merlin, don’t you dare! Don’t you  _dare_!”

“Arthur!”

He turned at the voice, massive yellow eyes peering in at him from a nearby window, eyes wide.

“What has happened?” Kilgharrah demanded, looking down at Merlin, no doubt summoned by his pain. Or was it his- No.

“He- I was stabbed,” Arthur stammered at him, pitch rising. “ _I_ was stabbed!”

Kilgharrah’s expression turned shocked, and then stern. “Get him up,” he said. “We have to hurry. There is only one person who can help him now.”

“Who? Where?” Arthur asked, but dutifully picked Merlin up, the man limp in his arms, and Arthur swallowed a sob as he focused, rushing around the corner and out a servant’s entrance, where Kilgharrah was already waiting on the sloping lawn.

“The Lady of the Lake,” Kilgharrah replied, turning his side to Arthur, who didn’t think it the time to ask questions, not with Merlin dangling limp in his arms, bleeding down Arthur’s sleeve. “Get on. Hurry!”

Arthur didn’t even think about, climbing onto Kilgharrah’s lowered neck as gently as he could with Merlin in his arms, his heart leaping as the man made a soft moan of protest. “Merlin?” he said, tapping at the boy’s face as Kilgharrah lifted off, bucking them slightly, but Arthur held his balance. “Merlin, can you hear me? You have to hold on, okay? You have to hold on. Merlin?”

“He is alive,” Kilgharrah said, voice carrying back on the wind as they flew.

Arthur swallowed, nodding down at his motionless servant, who grew paler even as Arthur looked at him. With a shuddering breath, he tugged him tightly to his chest, looking out to the back of Kilgharrah’s head. “Will-Will you tell me if-” He didn’t dare even speak it aloud, but Kilgharrah nodded all the same.

“I will,” he said, and then said no more, but his wings did speed up.

“Stay with me,” Arthur breathed into Merlin’s hair, uncaring for the soot his lungs sucked up from the strands. “Stay with me.”

It felt like an eternity before they landed, Arthur steadily counting out the beats of Merlin’s pulse as it throbbed weakly in his neck, but it was only minutes until Arthur sliding down, knees rattling with the impact as Merlin lolled in his arms.

“The water,” Kilgharrah ordered, nodding toward the lake, and Arthur realized where they were, the Lake of Avalon.

Still, he didn’t hesitate, carrying Merlin to the shore.

“You have to go in,” Kilgharrah explained. “She will come.”

Arthur looked back at the dragon, uncertain, but Kilgharrah did not waver, and he took a breath, stepping out into the water. Progress was not easy, the mud sucking at his boots as he staggered out from the beach, but Merlin’s breath stuttered a little when his back hit the cold water, and that was the only thing Arthur needed to hear to keep going.

He took two more steps, and then the water in the center of the lake started to swirl, a bubbling sort of spiral sweeping out in waves, and there was a brief moment of terror, a seize in his chest that was certain that were both about to drown, and then something broke the surface.

She appeared suddenly, a woman cloaked in white, and almost glowing softly in a halo around her blonde curls. She was pale, as were her eyes, but they were warm as they looked down at him, and, when she smiled softly, Arthur felt a sharp slap of recognition.

“Mother?” he whispered, the face achingly familiar from the one portrait he had ever seen, the one record his father has kept.

Ygraine Pendragon smiled down at him, nodding. “Hello, Arthur,” she said, and Arthur gasped, her voice so much better than he had ever imagined it.

“I- How are you-” He shook his head, words failing, but his mother smiled understandingly, like she should have been doing all along.

“I am the Lady of the Lake, keeper of the gates of Avalon,” she said, but Arthur only blinked. “I guard the barrier between life and death,” she added, waving a hand down at the water beneath her, “guiding souls in their passage to the afterlife.”

“I- I don’t-” he stammered, and then stopped, shaking his head, none of that important at the moment. “I need your help,” he said, shifting Merlin in his arms. “Merlin, he- It’s some sort of spell, I think. I was stabbed, but…but I wasn’t.” He rattled his head trying to focus his explanation. “He has my wound,” Arthur said, turning the man slightly so his mother could see, not that it wasn’t obvious from the blood pooling in the water around him, staining even his red tunic scarlet. “I-I don’t know what he did,” he murmured, dropping his face to Merlin’s worryingly still one.

Ygraine frowned, and then leaned down, holding her hands out over Merlin’s wound. “This is powerful magic,” she breathed, shaking her head gravely. “I-I am not certain what I can do.”

“What?” Arthur bleated, arms subconsciously tightening around Merlin, as if he could hold his life in by sheer force of will. “There has to be something! Heal him, or-or give it back to me!”

Ygraine shook her head. “I cannot reverse it—his magic is too strong for me to undo—and I cannot heal him, the enchantment would not allow it.”

“Why not?” Arthur sputtered, helpless.

Ygraine’s eyes were full of pity, but very little hope. “This protection spell was absolute. If you were to die, if your life were to be demanded by destiny, Merlin put himself in your place. I cannot undo fate.”

“But I’m supposed to die!” Arthur cried, lifting Merlin higher against him. “Me! Isn’t that undoing fate already?”

“No, Merlin did not  _undo_  fate, he merely  _altered_  it. Although,” she mused, looking down at the boy in Arthur’s arms, “I may be able to do that again.”

“I thought you said you couldn’t give it to me?” Arthur asked, and Ygraine shook her head.

“I can’t, but it may be possible- Arthur, I need you to listen closely. There isn’t much time.”

Arthur nodded, steadying himself as his mother began.

“Merlin is immortal,” she started, and that was nearly too much for Arthur already. “He will never die, never grow old. This was never meant to happen, he- Well, I believe magic would seek to correct it, if it could.”

Arthur frowned, but did not ask, listening intently as she continued.

“Merlin’s spell is focused on saving  _your_  life, but, if your life was somehow intertwined with his, the magic would heal him as well. Do you understand?”

Arthur nodded. “I think so, but… What do you mean? Aren’t our lives intertwined already?”

Ygraine shook her head in a quick jerk. “No, I mean your life  _forces_ , your spirits, your souls.”

“What- What would that do?” Arthur murmured, shifting his fingers against the hair at the base of Merlin’s skull, steadying himself against panic.

Ygraine took a breath, fixing him with a steady look. “If you bonded your life with Merlin’s, you too would become immortal. You must understand, Arthur,” she urged, hands stretching down toward him, “this is not an easy burden. You will never die, not even when those around you are gone. They will return, living at your side through their lifetimes, but they will still age, still die, and, until you are all together again, they will not remember. You will not have that. You will live through it all, and you will never forget. Neither of you.”

Arthur looked down, following the arches of Merlin’s cheekbones, the growing purple of his lips, and tried to remember how blue his eyes were. “But he’ll live,” he surmised, looking up to his mother, who smiled, nodding.

“Yes,” she said softly. “He will live.”

Arthur tightened his hold on Merlin, sighing a nervous breath. “Okay,” he said, nodding firmly. “Okay, I’ll-I’ll do it.”

Ygraine smiled, her whole face glowing with it. “Oh, Arthur,” she said, and her eyes blinked dewy. “I am so proud of you,” she whispered, sinking down into the water until she appeared to be standing in front of him, evidently just a little shorter than he was. She lifted a hand, and he closed his eyes, trying to memorize the feel of her skin against his cheek. “Take care of each other,” she said, and he opened his eyes, watching her place her other hand to Merlin’s chest, over the peek of silver pendant shining between the laces, and then, there was nothing but white light.

\---

Arthur sat at his desk, head in his hands as he looked over the papers scattered in front of him, all of the words running together. He groaned, leaning back in his chair, the heels of his hands grinding into his eyes. No matter how much this country changed, the problems always seemed to be the same.

“Penny for your thoughts.”

He lifted a hand, blinking the tall silhouette into focus.

“You’re back early,” he murmured, letting his hands fall to his lap.

“And you’re right where I left you,” Merlin joked, pushing off the doorframe to move inside the room, perching on the edge of Arthur’s desk as he fidgeted with the papers on the surface. “Going over Gwen’s itinerary for the international tour?”

“So many  _photo sessions_ ,” he bemoaned, and Merlin laughed, picking up a random sheet and giving it a cursory glance.

“Yeah, well, better her than me,” he muttered, replacing it on the pile.

“Speaking of,” Arthur chimed, leaning forward, planting his elbows on the desk as he peered up at the man, “how are things up at the dragon colony?”

“Oh, they’re really heating up,” Merlin replied, nodding entirely seriously for approximately one whole second before he burst into a broad grin at his own jest. “They’re fine,” he answered, shrugging as he picked up Arthur’s planner, a regular pastime of his being to make fun of the names of foreign diplomats Arthur had scheduled in for meetings. “It’s slow-going, but I think the population will recover. If Kilgharrah could see me now!” he joked, but his smile always turned a little serious on the edges when he talked about the dragon, who had passed many years ago, but not before seeing the first eggs hatch, the inaugural step in rebuilding the population he had thought lost for good.

Arthur didn’t cry, though, no matter what Merlin thought he saw.

“Maybe you’ll be doing a press tour for that,” Arthur joked, and Merlin laughed.

“Doubtful,” he scoffed. “I don’t even exist, remember? Officially, I just get you coffee.”

Arthur frowned. “It won’t always be like that, you know,” he said, and Merlin smiled down at him, tilting his head fondly.

“Arthur, you know I don’t care,” he said, his usual dialogue in this argument Arthur pretty much had with himself. “I’m fine being the super secret head of the super secret magic division.”

“I know,” Arthur grumbled, shuffling at the papers for something to do, “but I’m just saying. Someday, the world is going to know what you do.”

Merlin smiled, shaking his head.

It hadn’t been easy, getting used to Merlin’s abilities, but, once he had, he found it was even  _more_  difficult getting  _Merlin_  accustomed to receiving praise for them. He’d nearly blushed the Pendragon red he was wearing when Arthur had appointed him Court Sorcerer, before he’d changed the color to blue, and after they had returned to Camelot, both alive and whole. By the time Arthur had passed the throne to Will, however, sometime later, when most of their friends were gone and they had begun to yearn for walls that held fewer memories, he had made great strides. Still, he could be infuriatingly humble sometimes.

“Yeah, well, maybe we can wait until this whole paranormal romance craze is over?” Merlin answered. “I do  _not_  need a million letters from teenagers wanting to know where they can find vampires, thank you very much.”

“Wait, vampires?” Arthur muttered, head snapping up. “Those are real?”

“Of course not, don’t be stupid,” Merlin scoffed. “Vampires aren’t  _real_. Just dragons and Sidhe and manticores.”

“Oh my,” Arthur deadpanned, and Merlin laughed, sliding off the desk to come round to the back of Arthur’s chair.

“I missed you,” he said, wrapping his arms around Arthur, bending his body nearly in half as he burrowed his head into Arthur’s shoulder.

Arthur chuckled, Merlin’s hair tickling his face as he turned. “You were gone two days.”

“Long two days,” Merlin mumbled, and Arthur huffed a laugh into his curls, planting a light kiss in the hollow beneath his ears.

“Get a room.”

“Got one, thanks,” Merlin chirped, tilting his head up just enough to be able to meet Morgana’s rolling eyes. “Close the door on your way out?”

“This is a government office building,” she snipped, tapping away at her phone, “not a pay-by-the-hour-motel.”

“No, because that would be  _fun_ ,” Arthur taunted back, and Morgana actually stuck her tongue out at him, the harpy.

“Seriously though, Gwaine sent me to get you,” Morgana explained, pocketing her phone, miracle of miracles. “Says he has a proposal.”

Arthur raised an eyebrow, turning to look up at Merlin, who looked suddenly spectacularly guilty about something. Arthur’s face flattened. “You told him he could do it, didn’t you?”

“He’s the only one who hasn’t!”

“ _Mer_ lin!”

“It’s just one wedding!” Merlin countered pleadingly. “What’s one wedding, really?”

Arthur shook his head, once again grateful his office was camera and microphone free.

Over the past…oh, nearly 1,700 years—Arthur had lost count at some point—there had been several handfastings, commitment ceremonies, and, yes, proper weddings. Merlin and Arthur were, of course, still married from the first time, but, once everyone got together and recovered their memories, they wanted to do it again, the “once in a lifetime” jokes thick enough to swim in. They also wanted to take turns, resulting in the longest-running competition the world had never known—although Lancelot’s had far and away been the most romantic, but no one dared say as much around Gwen, who was itching for a rematch. Mind you, she got to marry him over and over, so, really, it was a moot point.

“Gwaine though?” Arthur whined, exhausted already. “ _Gwaine_?”

“What’s the worst that can happen?” Merlin shrugged, jovial as always, although Arthur preferred naïve. “So the only drink is a Screaming Orgasm, and dinner is those penis-shaped pasta noodles with squirt-it-yourself Alfredo sauce; it’s just one night!”

Arthur gaped at him, while Morgana burst into laughter in the doorway.

Merlin’s face twisted up in a self-conscious grimace. “Did I take it a bit too far with the Alfredo sauce?”

“Yes, Merlin!” Arthur spouted. “Yes, you did!”

“Sorry,” Merlin muttered, biting his lip, seeming much more pleased with himself than contrite.

Arthur sighed, hanging his head into a palm. “Please tell me you haven’t mentioned any of that to Gwaine.”

“No, of course not,” Merlin clipped, waving a hand, and there was a loud cough from the doorway.

Arthur looked up, finding Morgana smirking down at her smartphone, fingers flying over the screen. “You didn’t,” he deadpanned.

“He loves the idea,” she chirped, grinning at them.

Arthur groaned, Merlin bursting into laughter, and didn’t this just sum up his entire life. “Morgana!” he whined. “Gwen has to come to this!”

“Interesting choice of words.”

“Shut up, Merlin! This is going to be a PR  _nightmare_!”

“So?” Morgana clipped, slipping the phone back into her blazer with a shrug. “That’s my job. I’ll fix it. You just worry about the safety of our nation, and leave the press write-ups to me.”

“The first black female PM at a gay wedding eating phallic pasta,” Merlin mused, nodding thoughtfully at nothing in particular. “The headlines write themselves, really.”

Arthur glared up at him, Merlin beaming back, unaffected. “Don’t you have dragons to slay or something?” he snapped.

“That,” Merlin snipped, flicking a finger down at him, “would be counterintuitive to my Dragon Rehabilitation Initiative. Now, come on.” He pushed at the back of Arthur’s chair, knocking it with his knees until Arthur got irritated enough to stand up. “You should have gone home  _hours_  ago.”

“Ball and chain, indeed,” Arthur muttered under his breath, and then nearly toppled over, his foot suddenly cemented to the ground. Looking down, he found a shackle wrapped around his right ankle, a literal chain attached to a heavy black ball. “Hilarious,” he remarked dryly, shifting his foot with metallic clinks as he sneered up at the gold fading from Merlin’s eyes.

Merlin grinned, letting out a small satisfied huff of amusement, and then Arthur could move again, his briefcase perched on the edge of his desk, papers instantly packed and ready to go.

Really, when they weren’t being smartasses, magical husbands were the very best kind.

Arthur still insisted on driving though, Merlin’s teleporting thing always making him dizzy, and, besides, who needs magic when you can have a BMW? Merlin rode with him the short distance to their flat, changing the station every half a song, his whole face scrunched up as he searched, as if the radio had personally offended him with the mediocrity of  _every possible station_ , Arthur having sprung for the satellite upgrade.

Finally, as always, he put on his mix CD, mostly Beethoven and Mozart, which Arthur would, also as always, tease him about, because he  _had_  had the biggest crush on Beethoven, no matter  _what_  he said.

Arthur had been there. He’d seen the hearts in his eyes.

“Have you eaten?” Merlin asked, turning to him even as his head bobbed to the tinkling notes.

Arthur shook his head, and Merlin sighed, theatrically heavy.

“What  _would_  you do without me?” he chided, shaking his head disparagingly.

Arthur smiled out the windshield, reaching entirely across to take Merlin’s left hand, his ring cool against Arthur’s skin. Arthur spun the silver band around Merlin’s finger, finding the small dragon of the Pendragon crest imprinted into the surface, antiqued with black in the grooves, and rubbing over it with the side of his thumb.

Their rings were entirely identical to start with, but then Merlin had wanted to add something, as Merlin was wont to do.

“It’s this quote, by Plato,” he had said, and Arthur, if memory served, had rolled his eyes and said something rather unflattering. Merlin had probably just smiled. “It goes: ‘The soul of man is immortal and imperishable’. Fitting, right?” So, now, on the interior of Merlin’s band, the word ‘immortal’ was engraved, and Arthur had ‘imperishable’ pressed against his skin, both of them forged indestructible by dragon’s breath centuries ago.

Arthur slid his grip to Merlin’s right hand, the easier one to bring up to his mouth, lips brushing words into the smooth skin over the back. “I have no idea,” he murmured, lowering their hands back to Merlin’s knee as he interlocked their fingers, “but it’s probably for the best we don’t ever have to find out.”


End file.
